


In the Bleak Mid-Winter

by YvesAdele



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Cop Higgs, Drama, Drug Addiction, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvesAdele/pseuds/YvesAdele
Summary: He's just a UPS driver. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong criminal gang. Now he has to go undercover with this wolfish, ruthless flirt, and they've got to convince the neighbors they actually like each other. It's gonna be a complicated holiday season.
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges & Higgs Monaghan, Sam Porter Bridges/Higgs Monaghan
Comments: 64
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Fuck._

_…shit._

_…goddammit!”_

Sam Porter Bridges: the most reliable UPS driver in the American Midwest, trudging through sleet and snow and freezing rain to carefully set precious cargo on the doorsteps of every American here to Kansas City.

Sam Porter Bridges: president of finding dog shit in the snow with wet boots.

He gags as the smell is released from beneath the ice, grateful for a brief moment that the wind is frigid and aggressive enough to carry it off with some swiftness. He scrapes the boot unceremoniously on the client’s icy lawn, grumbling to himself. Clambering back into the truck, Sam ventures to turn the radio back on. More Christmas fuckery. He turns it off.

Turns out, December is the _actual_ worst time imaginable to be a UPS driver. The workload is unprecedented, the weather is horrible, and the music is hot garbage. Stupid dinosaur of a truck doesn’t have an aux input, or a CD player, or even a lousy tape deck. Just good ol’ FM radio. Unless he wants to listen to AM, which…he doesn’t. But it’s one of the few jobs he could get where he doesn’t have to face customers day in and day out, and it turns out he’s _good_ at it. His delivery times are perfect, and he has never lost a parcel. Dropped a few, but never lost.

As he pulls to his next stop, something feels…off. Sam doesn’t much believe in the supernatural, but he’s always had a sense for certain things, and his gut tells him to keep his eyes open on this block. It’s nothing unusual, cheery winter suburbia, houses blinking with colored lights, tacky inflatable Santas and Grinches and Rudolphs adorning every other lawn. Normally, the streets would be littered with school-aged kids, giggling and throwing snowballs and complaining about their gloves being wet. But today the wind rips harshly between houses, making the trees bend and stinging any wayward ears or fingers that might be caught out in it. With the wind chill, the temperature is far below zero. Even under all his layers, Sam’s toes ache and he can barely feel his fingers. His teeth chatter even before his boots hit slick blacktop, and he lets the truck rumble pathetically, heater sputtering the slimmest stream of lukewarm air vigorously into the open cabin.

He trudges up an unshoveled driveway, over an unshoveled front sidewalk, to the porch, which sports the tiniest dry spot right near the door. There he sets the little cardboard box. Steps back. His skin prickles, and it’s not from the cold. A passing car catches his eye, so he turns from his spot on the porch to watch it. Oddly, it slows, even as it passes the blinking hazards of his big brown truck.

The door behind him opens. Startled, Sam pivots. Perched in the doorway is a tall, slender man. He has a manic look on his face and a gun in his hand.

And a gun in his hand.

Realization sinks in as the sound of gunshots rings, almost lost to the stark wind. He’s sure he’s dead, or he’s going to die in mere moments.

Then he’s falling…but not to the snow. The mystery resident grabbed his collar, and Sam’s falling to warm, shiny hardwood. The door slams as more gunshots ring out, several ripping through wood and sending splinters flying.

A bolt turns. Manic eyes fall to meet the courier on the floor. A wolfish smile crosses the man’s lips. “Hi.”

Sam is so stunned by the stranger’s casual demeanor that the next round of gunshots startles him anew. Brain finally kicking into gear, he scrambles from the floor and away from the door and toward a metal desk in the adjacent den. It seems the only logical place to hide from flying bullets – granted, Sam’s never had to hide from _bullets_ before, so he’s not really sure.

“I just had this poor door re-varnished, too,” says the resident, sliding to the floor and joining Sam under the desk.

_Why the fuck is he talking like we met at a bar?_

“Higgs Monaghan,” the man says, extending his hand as though for a handshake, even as more gunshots ring out and something bangs against the front door.

Sam just stares at him, too stunned to ask questions and still largely terrified of being murdered in a stranger’s home.

“Not a hugger?” says Monaghan. “Too bad.” His eyes gloss over Sam in a way that makes his hide itch.

“Open the door, Monaghan!” More banging. This guy sounds huge – and _pissed_.

“So you can make my flesh into a purse?” Monaghan calls back. “I don’t think so!”

“I’ll make it quick, promise!”

The slender man lifts a long finger to his lips. Some of the feeling is beginning to return to Sam’s extremities, and if there was any less adrenaline coursing through his system it would probably sting like a bitch.

Finally, _finally_ , his lips move to form words. “What the hell?”

“I said _shh_!” That finger touches Sam’s lips.

Sam recoils, suppressing a shudder. “Don’t touch me--!” he exclaims. He wants to bat the hand away but freezes. He settles on leaning as far back as he can, scrunched between the legs of the desk and pressed against the wall.

The banging gets louder, and it’s joined by cracking sounds.

“Shit,” Monaghan mutters. He pulls the mag out of his pistol – holy shit this guy has a fucking _gun_ – and throws it unceremoniously. “Well, I’m out. We should move.”

“We?!”

Monaghan shrugs. “Stay here and get turned into Prada.” He ducks out from under the desk.

Sam mutters a swear, listening to the door give way. Well, it’s either follow the weird stranger or die, he supposes. He’s in this guy’s house, and these people are trying to kill this guy, so they will probably kill anyone they find.

_Follow the weirdo._ He bolts, rolling from under the desk. His wet boots squeak on the wooden floor as he scrambles to his feet and chases after Monaghan.

If he survives this, it’s gonna be one hell of a story.

At the back door he catches up with Monaghan, who smiles and ushers him out. A blast of icy wind almost slams the door on Sam. They run toward a back gate, snow crunching.

“Fuck!” Higgs shouts. “It’s cold!”

_No shit, Sherlock_ , Sam thinks, but he preserves his breath for keeping up with the agile man. They book it, through the gate, across the neighbor’s lawn. Sam glances back; the man in pursuit wears a creepy mask and a peculiarly crisp suit, and he’s standing at the back door lifting his weapon.

“Hey! UPS guy!” the friendly (?) stranger shouts. Sam turns around – and is blindsided by a blunt object. A loud _crack_ sounds, moments before searing pain radiates from his nose to his cheeks. Heat spills over his lips and dribbles off his chin, leaving red dots in the crisp snow. Blood. His blood.

The world spins. Snow crunches beneath Sam’s body as he falls, and the sky goes dark.

_Tha-thump._

_Tha-thump._

_Tha-thump._

Every pulse of blood through his tired veins sears. Sam is certain someone’s pounding his face in with a sledgehammer. Those thugs must have caught up to them, and now they’re maiming him by crushing his face. He hopes he dies soon.

A sliver of light creeps in through his swollen eyelids. He reaches for it with his mind, _please let me die_.

“Good morning, Princess.”

It’s not a Heavenly light at all. It’s fluorescent. The sledgehammer is actually just his blood, pulsing through what is surely a busted nose. Sam groans softly, and the resonance of his own voice stings like hell. He turns to sit up; whatever he’s lying on is much too hard.

“Easy Sammy boy, doc says you’re concussed.”

“Th’ hell d’you know my name?” Sam winces. His words sound congested and weak.

Monaghan, seated on the _hard thing_ next to him, chuckles softly. “So, about that…”

It dawns on Sam: they’re in a holding cell. They’re prisoners. Icy panic grips his throat. This is so much worse than death. What on Earth could they possibly want with him, a bystander? Images of bamboo chutes under fingernails enter his mind, and his heart rate picks back up, which makes him dizzy as the pain in his face intensifies. He’s sure he’s gonna puke.

“Monaghan? Bridges?” A gruff voice rounds the corner, and Sam sighs in desperate relief. It’s a police officer. They’re in a jail cell. Not some creepy basement waiting to have their tongues sliced out with rusty scissors.

“Good, you’re awake.” The jangling of keys precedes the cell door opening.

“Now _he_ can tell you,” Higgs offers, “we didn’t know each other until today.”

Sam nods curtly, then immediately regrets it as a fresh, painful pulse fills his nose. “I’m just a delivery driver,” he agrees.

“You’re a witness now,” the officer says. He pulls Sam off the bench roughly by the arm. Sam squirms and fights the urge to rip out of the man’s strong grip. He’s gripping too hard, pulling too fast, and Sam’s heart flutters most unpleasantly. He can feel a rash creeping up just beneath his collar. But he manages to keep his cool and let the man drag him out of the cell.

“You’re next,” the officer says, gesturing to Monaghan with his key before slamming the cell door shut.

“C’mon, go easy on ’im Pete, he’s got a head wound.”

Officer Pete just grunts and pulls on Sam some more. They weave through a couple doors, down a hallway, and into a small, dark room, where he unceremoniously shoves Sam into a cold, hard, metal chair.

His head pounds. He could really use an aspirin. For the first time since waking, he sees the blood on his uniform. _Shit,_ he thinks, _I’m gonna have to pay to replace this_.

The officer sits across from him and pulls a long clipboard off the wall. “What were you doing at 501 Maple Street today?”

“Delivering a package,” Sam says. He hates the way his voice comes out, soft and timid and shaky.

“What sort of package?”

“I don’t know, I just drive a UPS truck.”

“Mmhmm. What’s the nature of your relationship with Higgs Monaghan?”

“Just met him today.”

Officer Pete scribbles a couple of notes. Sam wishes he could see what’s on the clipboard, but he feels glued to the chair.

“So you just _happened_ to be at his house when the shooter arrived?”

Sam wants to explain that he felt like something was up, but that would probably rouse more suspicion than he was already under. He wasn’t even clear on why he was here, or who the shooter was, or why Monaghan was being shot at by what looked like a _very_ serious character.

Instead of saying any of that, he gives the tiniest nod.

“Okay, sure. Allll coincidence. You weren’t, oh, I dunno, supplying Monaghan with illegal substances?”

Sam’s eyes go wide. Him? A drug dealer?! He’d hardly touched a beer in his life, much less _illegal substances_. His heart hammers against sore ribs. “I—” he sputters, sure now that welts have risen on his neck.

“Don’t be so mean to this poor man.” Another voice sounds at the door, a kind, resonating voice.

Sam’s head turns to take in a short, rotund man, whose round glasses sit so low on his nose they might fall off any moment. A jagged scar peeks out from under his dark hair.

The officer stands. “Sorry, sir. I was just trying to get a head start on—”

“I know, I know. Now, go debrief Monaghan. Lord knows he’s probably crawling out of his skin in that holding cell. Go on.” He makes a motion, and the taller man leaves briskly.

“Pardon my associate. I’m afraid manners are not his strong suit. Detective Gutierrez.” The strange man extends a beefy hand.

Sam doesn’t move, doing his best not to stare at the appendage like a poised snake. He’s not sure he could move if he wanted.

“Of course.” Gutierrez raises his hands in apology, seating himself. The flimsy chair squeaks when the big man sits. “You must be wondering what’s going on.”

Another nod. Sam’s mouth feels like sandpaper. His lips are chapped from the cold.

“You’ve gotten yourself mixed up in some pretty ugly business, Mr. Bridges.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course, of course. Higgs told me what happened, and I’m choosing to believe him.” He shakes his head with a small chuckle that moves his whole belly. “Pete thinks you’re a drug dealer. Look at you, like a deer in headlights. I don’t think you’ve ever stepped on an ant.”

Sam blushes, feeling somehow smaller, but the detective’s cheery, friendly manner helps ease some of the tension in his shoulders.

“No, Mr. Bridges, I don’t think you’re in any sort of legal trouble.”

Sam says, “So, can I go?”

Gutierrez sighs, smile fading. “This little run-in today? Those folks…well, let’s just say they’re not your neighborhood pot dealers. I’m assuming they saw your truck, and your face, considering one of them nearly busted your nose clean off.” He frowns. “Let’s get you an ice pack.” He looks up and makes a motion, and for the first time Sam notices the camera in the corner. He wonders who’s watching them. The last thing he wants is to put something cold on his face, but he’s not about to argue.

“My bet would be, they know who you are. They probably found where you live, and McClane is not likely to let you slide by if you saw him or his men try to hit a cop.”

Sam isn’t sure how to articulate his confusion, so he just glances momentarily up at the friendly face before casting his eyes back to the tarnished metal table.

“Oh, yes, Officer Monaghan – or, should I say, _ex-officer Monaghan_ , was one of our guys. McClane probably thinks you are, too. He’ll be after both of you now.”

“But—I’m really just—”

“A delivery driver.” Gutierrez nods empathetically. “I know. We checked out your records when Higgs brought you here. Nothing more than a parking ticket for the last decade.”

“I didn’t know it was a red zone—”

“Don’t worry yourself about any of that. You’ve just walked into something much stickier than vehicle violations.”

Sam doesn’t like the sound of that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Higgs begs your pardon, sir. We have to do what, now?

“Witness protection?! You fucking with me, Gutierrez? Say you’re fucking with me. Please say _psych_.” Monaghan looks somehow _more_ manic than he did that morning, eyes wide as his lip curls up in a snarl of disbelief, canines glinting dangerously in the florescent light.

Sam stands some distance from him, Gutierrez, and a younger man, who is thin and short with dark skin and hair and thick glasses.

“You did this,” says the young man. “You put yourself in this position, and we need your testimony to name McClane. Unfortunately, you’re the only one who can do that now.”

“This is ridiculous.” Higgs glances over at Sam and takes a step toward him.

Sam flinches, immediately anticipating contact from the aggressive man.

Higgs pauses and says, “Keep that ice pack on your nose.”

Sam obediently complies, lifting the cold compress back to his face. It stings. He knows it will help prevent any further swelling, but it _sucks_.

“Not only do we need your testimony,” Gutierrez continues, “but you managed to drag a civilian into this.”

“He was on _my doorstep,_ ” Higgs retorts. His tone is relaxed, but his eyes still look wild. “I don’t control when the mail arrives.”

“Your actions led to your mailman being in danger.”

At this, Sam raises his free hand slightly and mutters, “UPS driver.”

“Grown-ups are talking,” Higgs says dismissively.

Sam frowns – an expression hidden by the ice pack.

“At least he wasn’t there to drop off more needles,” the third man muses.

It takes Sam a moment to catch the drift, though Higgs doesn’t miss a beat. “Y’know doc, I’m not too fond of needles. But I’d let you stick me any day.”

“Dr. Jacobs,” says Gutierrez, “will you see that Mr. Bridges’s wounds are tended to?” He sighs and turns to Higgs. “We need to concoct a good cover story now.”

Higgs’s snarl softens. His eyes flicker to Sam for a moment, then to Jacobs. He crosses his arms.

The tiniest of smirks crosses the detective’s face when Monaghan caves. He nods, and Dr. Jacobs motions for Sam to follow him.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

_Not possible,_ Sam thinks, but he sits on a small, padded bench. Always obliging to the best of his ability.

Jacobs turns to face him. In one hand, he holds a small pen light. On the other is a blue medical glove. “I’d like to check your responses once more, now that you’re conscious.” A step toward Sam.

With a small intake of breath, Sam shrinks away before he can stop himself.

Jacobs studies him intently for a long moment. A _very long_ moment. His bespectacled eyes narrow. Finally, after endless, agonizing silence, he says, “I’m just going to shine this light in your eyes. Try not to blink too much.”

It’s a harmless test, and the doctor doesn’t step any closer during the examination. He asks Sam a few questions about his head, his physical orientation and his eyesight, looks inside his mouth and nose, and generally looks over Sam like a bug under a microscope. Sam does feel slightly nauseated, which he shares.

With a nod, Jacobs says, “Your pupillary response looks good, but judging by how long and hard you were out,” he mutters something incoherent-but-derogatory-sounding about the officer who first dragged Sam out of the cell, “you’ve got a moderately serious concussion. Take some Tylenol and call me if you start to feel woozy. Monaghan has my number.” He turns to a cabinet and pulls out a plain prescription bottle, shakes two pills into his gloved hand, and holds it toward Sam.

“I’ve got some aspirin in my coat—”

“Don’t take that. No NSAIDs until the bruising goes away.”

Sam looks suspiciously at the pills.

“Acetaminophen. 200mg each. Hold your hand out. I won’t touch you.”

Reluctantly, Sam accepts the pills and the small dixie cup of water Jacobs shoves at him.

“What about that rash?” Jacobs motions to his own neck as he speaks.

“Just happens sometimes,” Sam says.

“Stress response.” The doctor sounds satisfied, which both annoys and relieves Sam. “Any discomfort?”

It stings and sometimes itches, but Sam shakes his head anyway. He doesn’t want Jacobs shining any more lights on him, or shoving any more meds his way.

“Well, if it gives you any trouble, a non-prescription corticosteroid cream or a calamine lotion should help calm any itching or other discomfort. And if you need a scripp, call me.” He chuckles. “Unfortunately, I can’t help you with any Higgs-related discomfort. No pill for that.”

It slowly dawns on Sam. The medical exam, the quiet investigation, _Higgs has my number_ … Witness protection. What did Gutierrez say about _ugly business_? It’s not just that crazy guy Monaghan who is going to need protecting.

Doctor Jacobs rattles off a few more instructions, which Sam barely hears over the anxious ramblings of his own inner voice. As they exit the small exam room, he spots the skinny creep striding down the hall toward them. Gutierrez isn’t far behind, clearly struggling to keep pace.

“Ready for a getaway, sugar?” Higgs calls down the hall. He has stark defiance in his voice, sweeping his arms in a grand gesture as he walks. His reach is so long, he can nearly touch each hallway wall with arms outstretched.

“Monaghan!” Gutierrez shouts. “Protocol!”

Higgs laughs. It’s loud and echoes. “Not an officer anymore, _detective_. Fuck your protocols.” His eyes lock on Sam’s, and he grins. “Looking forward to a lavish, department-funded Christmas vacation, though! Right, Sam?”

Sam stands frozen outside the open door. Fuck, he really is like a deer in headlights. His cheeks heat up, bringing the ache in his nose back to the forefront. “I don’t—”

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” Gutierrez grunts, panting as he catches up. “This is far from a vacation, Higgs. You screwed up, big time, and you’re going to be responsible for anything that happens to Mr. Bridges.”

“Don’t worry.” One of those sweeping arms reaches as though to land over Sam’s shoulders. Fortunately, Sam’s legs finally come back to life, and he ducks away from the embrace before the man can grab him. Unfortunately, he runs into Dr. Jacobs in the process. Sam stutters out an apology and backs away. Cold sweat begins to bead on his forehead, and the nauseated feeling in his throat rises.

“Whoops. Sorry.” Higgs doesn’t sound sorry. “Forgot about the _bubble_. Don’t worry, boss. I won’t let anything happen to this precious little lamb.”

The wolfish smile following the peculiar endearment makes Sam’s stomach somersault. He wants to run, feet itching to remove himself from the uncomfortable situation so he can lie down and feel miserable without anyone scrutinizing him or squawking pet names at him.

“How about you shut up,” Jacobs says, casting an annoyed glare at Higgs.

Higgs’s tongue darts out to sweep over his bottom lip, eyes devouring the doctor. “How about you _make me_.”

“Enough!” Gutierrez bellows. “It’s time to brief Mr. Bridges.”

“I’d like to _brief_ Mr. Bridges,” Higgs growls, sauntering closer.

Sam presses his back against the wall, doing his best to glare and _not_ look as afraid as he feels.

“Go get your things out of your locker.” Gutierrez grabs Higgs by the shoulder and pulls him away from Sam, to Sam’s great relief. “Doctor, please accompany Mr. Monaghan and get him anything he needs for his ‘vacation.’”

“Yes, sir.”

They watch the pair walk off and disappear at the end of the hallway. After a moment, Gutierrez looks back at Sam. He looks contemplative, but not scrutinous like Dr. Jacobs. Some of the tension leaves Sam, but his guard is still up. He supposes it really always is when people stand too close – even though the detective has shown nothing but respect for Sam’s personal boundaries.

“Walk with me?”

Sam unglues himself from the wall and follows Gutierrez, who has already started down the hall.

Though terrified of the answer, Sam finally forces the question to his lips. “What happens now?” His voice is so soft that, for a moment, he’s afraid the other man didn’t hear him.

“You and Monaghan will be escorted to a safehouse at an undisclosed location. You’re to have zero contact with anyone you know until further notice.”

That will be easy; Sam doesn’t exactly keep acquaintances.

“What about my job?”

“You’ll be provided with a job once you’re settled, and an officer will inform your current employer of your upcoming absence.”

“For how long?”

Gutierrez looks pensive, slowing his stride. He glances sideways at Sam, then says, “Mr. Bridges, I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but believe me when I tell you that, for now, the less you know the safer you’ll be.”

“Sam.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just…call me Sam.”

“Of course.” Gutierrez nods. “Sam. It’s important you take every precaution possible. The coming months will be vital – not only to our investigation, but to your very survival. Now, at the same time, try not to be terribly alarmed. Witness Protection is standard procedure in these cases, and Monaghan is an excellent agent, despite how he might appear from his…less-than-professional behavior.”

“Do I have to stay with him?”

At that, the rotund man chuckles. “I’m afraid so; it’s the safest option.”

For a few moments, Sam walks alongside the detective in contemplative silence.

“Aphenphosmphobia, right?”

“What?”

Gutierrez halts, turning to face Sam fully. “No handshakes, no doctor’s appointments for years…”

_They looked up my medical records?_

“…no spouse, low-or-no-contact jobs, the stress wheals.”

“What is…eff…?”

“ _Aphenphosmphobia._ You don’t let people get close to you, do you?”

“Oh. no.”

“Fascinating. Pardon my intrigue; I’ve heard of the condition, but I’ve never met anyone who actually has it. Assuming, of course, that’s what it is.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s of little import, anyway. I can sense your anxiety about Higgs Monaghan, but I assure you he’s ultimately decent. I’ll ensure he adheres strictly to your boundaries, and I’ll check in occasionally just to be sure he’s behaving.”

It still doesn’t seem real. Being shot at, chased by criminals, dragged by his collar into a strange man’s house…it feels like a foggy fever dream from ages ago. Maybe that’s the concussion.

“Are you on any medications or have any undisclosed allergies?”

“No.”

“Good. You can’t go back to your house, you understand. You’ll be provided with clothes and groceries at the house, and your escort will take you there tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I know it’s quick; we can’t take any chances that they’ll track you on your way there. The longer we wait, the better their chances of finding you.”

Sam doesn’t have anything at his apartment he can’t live without, he supposes. “ Could you have someone feed my fish?”

“Of course.” Gutierrez’s voice is soft and understanding.

Even still, having so little time to mentally prepare for this… _excursion_ …

He begins to feel woozy. He sways a little, reaching out to the wall for support. “Can’t I just, I dunno,” he swallows bile, “skip town or something?”

“It’s too risky. Besides, though he may not show it, Higgs will want to keep an eye on you. He feels responsible for your…current condition. And predicament.”

Sam huffs a small laugh. Higgs Monaghan doesn’t seem the type to take responsibility for…anything.

“He carried you through the back door,” Gutierrez says, tone a little defensive. “He wouldn’t be silenced until he knew for sure you were going to be ok. And he kept checking your pulse while you were unconscious in the holding cell.”

“…he did?”

“He did. He may be…the way that he is.” Gutierrez smiles fondly. “But I promise you, Sam, he’s a good person at heart. Once you get past the grandeur and the flirting, of course.”

Somehow, that doesn’t ease Sam’s worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short because it's transitional, and I wanted to give a little information without dragging it out forever. Some fun, domestic, "undercover" stuff is in the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, the word "partner" has multiple connotations.

After all that’s transpired today, Sam again loses consciousness while sitting in the back of their escort. Emotional exhaustion combined with his head injury and the comforting _rumble_ of the SUV finally takes him out.

He dreams of the North Pole, of holly and gingerbread and sleigh bells. Their driver left the radio humming Christmas music at a low volume, and the songs translate to scenery in Sam’s imagination. He dreams of sitting at a fire in the middle of the snow. Stars twinkle overhead, and the fire breathes warmth through the crisp winter air. He’s snuggled in a warm embrace, comfortable only in dream form, feeling safe and sleepy. Even dream-Sam drifts in and out of slumber, listening to gentle Christmas tunes and watching the fire flicker down to embers. Somehow, asleep, he doesn’t hate the music.

Waking is a touch less pleasant; Sam’s head rests on the window, rattling as the driver crosses lanes. Higgs is awake, one heel pressed into his seat, the other leg stretched out into the row in front.

Sam sits up; his back pops as he stretches.

Higgs’s eyes flick quickly in his direction. “Morning, Sammy Boy.”

“Is it?”

“Ish. It’s like 2AM.”

Sam rubs his eyes, trying to see through the fog and sleet outside. All he can see is white. It’s a miracle their driver keeps them on a steady path. “Are we almost there?”

“I think so.” Higgs looks through the windshield. “Not sure exactly where we’re going, but trying to enjoy the journey.” His eyes sweep briefly over Sam, but not so briefly that he avoids blushing. “At least it’s been a good view, though.”

It’s near 4AM when they finally arrive. Sam’s body aches. He can’t wait to throw himself into a bed and sleep for an eternity. They’ve stopped in a dark, suburban area. Their escort walks them to the front door and unlocks it, then hands Higgs a set of keys.

“Someone’ll be by tomorrow afternoon with some groceries and toiletries,” the escort says. Without further conversation, he returns to the squad car and drives off.

“Well,” says Higgs, “let’s settle in.”

Higgs flips on the lights when they enter. It’s a nice house, especially compared to Sam’s tiny apartment back home. The whole studio could fit in the entry way, which sports a small table by the door and an empty shoe rack. There’s a key hook which reads _Home Sweet Home_ mounted on the wall. The floor is tile – real stone, not that linoleum sticker crap he always sees in cheap houses. There’s several yards of tile leading to carpet in the living area. There’s a large, flat-screen television mounted to one wall, and across from it is a plush, white sofa. In the corner of the living area is a small love seat, matching the sofa.

With a low whistle, Higgs says, “This isn’t what I was expecting at all.”

“Me either,” Sam admits. Maybe their bunking situation won’t be so bad.

The kitchen is magnificent. Sam has never been much of a cook, but it seems a waste _not_ to utilize the sheer space. Tile through the kitchen and dining room matches that of the foyer. The cabinets are all dark cherry with brushed nickel handles, and the granite counters have a sparkle to them. The sink is enormous, and the fridge is one of those fancy, wood-front fridges that look invisible against the cabinetry.

“They’ve been holding out on me!” Higgs laughs. “Didn’t know the department had _these_ kinds of funds.”

Though furnished, the house feels eerily empty. No family photos anywhere, no wayward bills or letters sitting around, no empty dishes – hell, no dishes _anywhere_ – no DVDs on the shelves in the living room. It’s reminiscent of a stage unit, like the one he toured before renting his apartment…but for someone at least two tax brackets higher than him. It’s certainly not anything he would have chosen for himself.

One room is set up as an office, complete with a desktop computer and what looks like a _very_ ergonomic chair and keyboard/mouse slab.

“Well, how about that,” says Higgs. “We really are businessmen.”

Their cover story, Sam fears, would be difficult to maintain. Supposedly, he and Higgs were partners – dealership owners from Los Angeles who sold their car lot to move to a cheaper, more central locale in the Midwest and focus on investments and stocks. It made very little sense for men who wanted to be on Wall Street to instead be in the middle of Corn Country, but Gutierrez insisted people would buy the _cheaper cost of living_ explanation. Gutierrez himself moved from LA to the Midwest for that same reason back in 2002, and he claimed to know several others who did the same.

The hallway restroom is also nice, and though it’s finished the basement is mostly just an empty room storing a few folding chairs and a large, empty chest freezer.

Sam is slightly annoyed when they discover there is only one bedroom. They went all out for this expensive house, but only one of the rooms contained a bed? Granted, the bed is extravagantly large – a California King? – but there is no way in seven hells Sam is sharing a bed with a man he met less than 24 hours ago.

His hesitation goes unnoticed by Higgs, who excitedly flops onto the bed, spread-eagle, the moment he lays eyes on it. He sighs loudly and smiles wide. “Extra comfy.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Sam says, turning quickly to leave.

“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” Higgs calls. “We can keep our socks on.”

“No, thanks.” Sam treks to the linen closet at the far end of the hall – thankfully stocked with a few sets of sheets – and gathers some bedding to use in the living room.

Sleep does not elude him.

The first sliver of daylight has barely crept inside when Sam is awakened by clattering in the kitchen. He rubs his eyes and groans, glances at his watch: it’s only 8AM.

_Doesn’t this guy ever sleep?_

Higgs is rustling about in the kitchen, and the faint aroma of coffee wafts past Sam’s nose.

“Morning, sunshine!” Even though he’s facing away, Higgs has somehow sensed that Sam is conscious. Sam sits upright; _pound…pound…pound_ …goes his face. He winces and leans back, tilting his head against the couch in an attempt to divert some blood flow from the injury.

“Little early,” Sam grumbles.

“Never! We’re _business men_ , remember? Gotta wake up with the stock market. Actually, we’re a little behind on that, but ah well. It’s moving day. We get a little slack.”

A weight hits the couch beside him, and Sam glances over at Higgs, who’s made himself comfortable in just boxers. Even in flannel pants and a t-shirt, Sam’s more comfortable under the warmth of the blanket. How Higgs is fine just walking around mostly-naked is a mystery. He extends a steaming cup of coffee to Sam. Reluctantly, Sam accepts. He’ll need caffeine if he’s going to operate on so little sleep.

“Had a few supplies in the cabinets,” Higgs explains. “Should be getting a full haul of groceries pretty soon, though. And I don’t mean to brag, but,” Higgs chuckles, “you’re gonna be _dazzled_ by my chef skills, Sammy.”

“Can’t wait.” Sam’s tone is less-than-enthused. On the floor beside the couch sits the bag provided to him by the department. It contains a fresh change of clothes along with the pill bottle filled with painkillers Dr. Jacobs prescribed. Sam retrieves the bottle and shakes two pills into his hand, then throws them back with a big gulp of hot coffee.

“Like a man!” Higgs says with laugh. Before Sam can react, the slender man leans forward, pats Sam on the knee, then stands. Sam grumbles, leans forward, and sets his mug on the coffee table.

“How do you like your eggs?” Higgs calls from the kitchen.

“No thanks.” Sam’s voice is raspy with morning grog.

“New toothbrush in the bathroom,” Higgs says. “Unopened, if you’re worried about it. So you won’t get my _cooties_ or whatever you’re so afraid of.” He sounds pleasantly amused, but there’s a _hurt_ undertone that Sam almost doesn’t catch.

_The nerve of that guy…_

“Not much toothpaste left; it was a little tube, sorry. I asked for some more though!”

_Like hell I’m using your toothpaste._

As-promised, there’s a brand new toothbrush, complete with plastic and cardboard, sitting on the restroom vanity. Sam rips the packaging open, tossing the trash toward the bin. It bounces off the side and lands on the floor. Sam shrugs and turns on the tap. He brushes his teeth with only water, glancing at the pathetic little toothpaste tube on the side of the sink. He watches himself in the mirror, eyeing the damage on his face. It’s the first time he’s really looked at himself since getting clocked yesterday. His nose is swollen and splotched with blue and green. Dark half-moons sit under his eyes.

He spits into the sink and mutters, “You look like shit.”

With herculean effort, he combs fingers through messy hair, trying to tame it from a restless night on the couch. For all Sam’s time spent unconscious, he certainly looks like someone who hasn’t slept much the past few days.

A noise from the living area pulls Sam from his thoughts. He splashes water onto his face, carefully pats it dry with a hand towel, and then pads down the hallway to see what’s going on.

There is a woman sitting on the couch opposite Higgs, smiling brightly and clutching a cup of coffee. On the table sits a large Tupperware.

“Sam!” Higgs, who has at least put on a pair of pants, waves enthusiastically from his seat. “We’ve got a visitor.”

Sam does not answer the beckon, standing awkwardly at the end of the hall.

“He’s a quiet guy,” Higgs faux-whispers with amusement in his voice.

The woman turns to smile brightly at him. Her mostly-silver hair is shaved on the side, surprising on a woman her age, but her expression is warm and inviting. She stands, transferring the coffee to her left hand and extending the other. “I’m Taylor, your next door neighbor! Hi!”

Sam takes a step back, withdrawing a little.

Higgs clears his throat and nods aggressively toward the woman, but thankfully she raises the hand back toward herself and says, “Sorry, still learning not to impose societal expectations on strangers. I don’t know if you like muffins, but I made some. Blueberry Streusel, my sister’s recipe. My wife thought I should do chocolate, but I told her hey, if you don’t like blueberry, I’ve got another excuse to stop by and bring ya something, right?”

After a beat, Sam finally manages to say, “Blueberry’s great. Thanks.”

Her smile widens. “Awesome! Well, I work from home, so please feel free to stop by if you need anything. That’s my house right there, but if you come by before 11 don’t ring the doorbell. Samantha sleeps late most days.”

“I like to sleep late too,” Sam says, casting a glare at Higgs who only looks at his lap and smirks.

Taylor laughs. “Must be a _Sam_ thing. I won’t keep you, I know you had a late night. Samantha saw you pull up late last night, but I figured you could use breakfast. I see your truck’s not here yet?”

“Bare necessities,” Higgs chimes in. “We’re sort of…starting fresh, here.”

Taylor puts a hand to her chest. “How wonderful! Letting go of worldly possessions. I love it. Well, I’ll be on my way.” At the door, she pauses again. “I hope it’s not weird to say, I’m just really happy to finally have some… _like-minded_ neighbors.”

Sam, still standing in the hallway, casts a confused glance to Higgs.

Higgs only smirks wider, but his face does turn a shade of pink. “I must say the same. An absolute pleasure to meet you, Taylor. Thanks for the muffins! I’ll bring your container back later.”

The neighbor sees herself out.

After a moment, Sam grumbles, “So we’re just letting the neighbors inside our safe house? That’s the department’s idea of _laying low_?”

Higgs gestures innocently, arms spread wide. “Sammy! She brought us muffins! It wouldn’t be neighborly to decline. Besides, it’ll help dispel some of the _new neighbor_ mystery.”

“What’d you even tell her?”

“I just introduced myself and gave her our cover story. Geez, lighten up will ya?”

“No, that _like-minded_ shit. What was that about?”

“Ah, well I may have used the word _partner_ and, being a member of the LGBT community, when she saw you she may have slightly misconstrued my implications.”

Sam’s cheeks dust red. “You couldn’t say _business_ partner?”

“I didn’t realize she was gay until after I already said it!”

“So now the neighbors think we’re a couple?”

Higgs shrugs. “Hey, if it adds to our cover story, it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“No fucking way. You tell those ladies it was a misunderstanding.”

“Oh come on Sam.” Higgs stands, picking up the muffins to carry them toward the kitchen. “It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep with me, okay? Besides, how do I _correct_ them without blowing our cover? Just two dudes, platonically living together in a new house in a new town with none of their stuff? With just one bed?”

“We aren’t even platonic!” Sam blurts. “You basically _kidnapped_ me and dragged me out of my life and into this…this… I don’t even like you _platonically_.”

With an exaggerated frown, Higgs says, “Ouch.”

“You know what I mean!”

“It’s just a cover. We don’t actually trade stocks on wall street, we aren’t actually here to start a new life, and we aren’t actually a couple. Will you take a breath and get the stick out of your ass? Come on, you haven’t always wanted to go undercover and play house?”

“No! Especially not with…”

Higgs raises an eyebrow. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “Especially with…?”

Sam grinds his teeth, biting back venomous words. “An ex-cop _criminal_.”

For the briefest of moments, Higgs’ playful demeanor falls. It’s betrayed only by a slight shift in his countenance, and it lasts less than two seconds before his shoulders slump and that lopsided grin finds its way back onto his face. “Oh well,” he says, “too late now. Looks like you’re my _hubby_ , like it or not.”

“Call Gutierrez.”

“Sam—”

“I said call him!”

Higgs huffs. “Fine. If that’s what you really want, we’ll _call dad_ to settle this spat.”

“It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Taylor and Samantha, the lesbian neighbors, are based on myself and one of my very best friends. They're minor characters, but in case y'all wonder who the hell these people are supposed to represent, it's not characters from the game. It's just us, and I needed another "Sam" for dumb joke purposes. Enjoy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Sam to come out of his shell...but he's gonna need a little nudge. Good thing Higgs is good at nudging. Okay, it's more like shoving in his case, but a push is a push nonetheless.

Sam sure isn’t pouting.

“I made stir-fry..!” Higgs sing-songs from the kitchen.

Sam turns the TV up until it’s so loud it’s uncomfortable.

“Don’t be such a baby!” Higgs calls, louder.

Without responding, Sam stares at the television. It’s only a news program, some ribbon cutting at a toy factory in the city they’re staying in. It’s fluff, and he doesn’t care about it, but if it drowns out Monaghan’s incessant annoyingness then he’ll gladly go deaf listening to an anchorwoman talking about Santa’s Elves.

A plate clatters onto the coffee table by Sam’s knees.

“Eat.”

Sam doesn’t acknowledge Higgs or the food, only sitting back and crossing his arms.

“I’d hate to see that beautiful, chiseled face become emaciated.” Higgs sits on the couch next to him, his own plate in hand.

The food does smell amazing. Teriyaki and steak, onions, mushrooms, garlic… Sam’s mouth waters. But he’s still mad, so he doesn’t cave.

Were it any nicer out, he’d go sit on the porch in an attempt to be alone. But he already tried that earlier in the day, and he couldn’t take the ripping, icy wind.

For a few glorious minutes, Higgs is quiet as he scarfs down the contents of his plate. For a skinny guy, he’d sure eaten voraciously all day. Three of the muffins the neighbor brought, two eggs, countless slices of bacon, a sandwich, an entire bag of barbeque potato chips, and now a huge plate of stir-fry and rice. The TV blares unrelentingly as Higgs stands, walks his plate to the kitchen, drops it unceremoniously into the sink, and then returns to his spot on the couch.

He sighs loudly. “Isn’t there something better on?”

Sam snatches the remote from the coffee table and moves to the love seat on the far side of the room.

“Fine!” Higgs stands again. He traipses toward the foyer. “I’m going on a walk. Your energy is so sour right now, Sammy.”

With a clenched jaw, Sam ignores the man’s jabs, staring mindlessly at the screen. Wind whips the front door out of Higgs’s hands, and he curses softly which does make Sam smile a little.

Once the irritant is clear of the house, Sam turns the volume down a little and browses channels. It’s really no worse than listening to the truck radio, but time moves monumentally slower. At least he doesn’t have to traipse through the snow and ice. Why Higgs would choose to face the frigid winter is beyond him, but he’s just glad for a moment of privacy.

Gutierrez was, unfortunately, on board with presenting him and Higgs as a couple. Rather, he agreed with Higgs that backtracking would be too risky and halfheartedly apologized to Sam, repeatedly telling Higgs to “behave.” Sam tried to communicate that Higgs was not, in fact, _behaving_ , but Gutierrez didn’t think the ex-officer was necessarily out of line and ended the call.

“This is such bullshit,” Sam mutters to the empty room. Now that he’s had a little time to settle, to let yesterday’s bruises and battering really sink in, he’s angry. Angry at this irresponsible little cretin and whatever he’d done to become a target. Angry at himself for not driving the truck right on past to the next house. Angry at the department for shacking him up with that very same cretin, and angry at the cable provider for having nothing of interest on any of its 300+ channels.

“So much TV and still nothing to watch.” He lifts the remote and turns the TV off. The house goes dead quiet, save for wind whipping through the gutters and awnings. He wanders into the kitchen; the tile is cold on his bare feet. He glances at the food on the stove, then over the island at the front door; no sign of the menace. From the wok he grabs a fat piece of steak and pops it into his mouth, licking his fingers.

It is _delicious_. He grabs another, then one more, before ceasing in case Higgs walks back in.

So the skinny creep is a good cook. A single redeeming quality among many foul ones.

He’s still licking teriyaki from his fingers as he wanders into the office. A tall, broad bookshelf sits on one wall, and Sam skims its contents. _Wall Street for Dummies, The 2020 Investor’s Guide, Boost your Stocks in just 30 Days…_ A bunch of crap. He keeps looking, until he sees the small collection of what looks like cozy mysteries. Not his favorite, but better than a bunch of baloney self-help books.

He pulls one off the shelf at random.

_Murder Comes to Town, by W. H. Beswick_

He flips it open to check out the foreword: independently-published, with thanks to the editors and friends of the author.

“Sure, why not.”

Sam sits cross-legged on the carpet and leans against the wall beside the heater vent.

_Tha-thump._

_Tha-thump._

_Tha-thump._

_…BANG!_   
  


Sam wakes with a start, fumbling a book from his hands and onto the ground. His heart hammers against his ribs, head swimming. He is sure he heard gunshots.

“Lucy, I’m ho-OME!”

…it’s just the idiot returned from his walk. That sound was the door slamming. Not a weapon. Sam rubs his eyes and glances at his watch; he must have passed out for a good ten minutes. His hands are shaky. For a few moments he sits, still as stone, catching his breath from the rude awakening. When the trembling ceases, he picks up the book, several of its pages now bent, and carries it with him into the living room.

Higgs is kicking off wet boots by the door and shucking a heavy coat. His lips are blue, teeth chattering. In a mittened hand he holds a fistful of papers. It looks like mail.

“How about this!” he says, excitedly holding up the stack. “They’re all addressed to _resident_. Well Sammy, I think that’s us now, don’t you agree?”

Sam says nothing, retrieving his pillow and blanket from the hall closet before going back into the office and closing the door.

Muffled, Sam hears, “Don’t be such a sourpuss!”

Sam buries his nose again in the book, pillow between his back and the wall, blanket over his chilly feet.

“We should go.”

Higgs holds up an invitation with the words _Holiday Soiree_ in large print at the top.

“I hate parties.”

“What, you? Mr. Social? Never.” Higgs smirks, tossing the invitation in Sam’s direction. It lands on the table and then slides to the floor. “Come on, it’s a way to scope out the neighborhood, blend in. Seem like we belong here, you know?”

“But we don’t belong here.”

“I mean, I’m sure some of the neighbors might feel that way about a gay—”

“You know what I mean!” Sam snaps. He picks up the invitation and tosses it into the garbage. “M’not going.”

Higgs sighs. “Sam, certain parts of being in hiding mean doing things you don’t wanna do. Regular Sam wouldn’t go to a party, so undercover Sam must.”

“Bullshit.”

“We have to seem normal. Not mysterious. We don’t want neighbors gossiping about us, wondering who we are or what we do. The more curious they are, the more and more likely our cover will be blown. _Capiche_?”

“Not going to a goddamn Christmas party,” Sam grumbles. He takes a long drink of coffee and grimaces. “This tastes like shit.”

Higgs takes a drink and nods agreement. “It sucks. But it’s what the department’s giving us.”

“I don’t even like coffee.”

“Huh. Then why are you drinking it?”

“Caffeine.”

Higgs nods. “I’ll ask for Red Bull or something instead. Sound good?”

Sam works his jaw for a moment. Softly, he says, “Monster?”

“What’s that?”

“Monster tastes better.”

Higgs smiles. “Whatever you want, babe.”

“Stop.”

“Put your leftovers in the fridge, in case you get hungry. There’s another serving too, or I can cook something else. Not that I should for how ungrateful you’ve been this week.”

“We’ve been here two days.”

“Exactly! I’ve saved your life and cooked for you, and we only just met.”

Sam sighs. “You always this pompous?”

“Special for you, handsome.” Higgs pauses. “No wait, I’m always like this.” He knocks on the table as he stands. “Adding Monster Energy Drinks to the shopping list! Special request for my little lamb.”

Sam wishes he hadn’t said anything, resting his head on the table.

“Maybe something will finally make him happy,” Higgs coos.

Over the ensuing days, Sam is certain he’ll lose his mind. He reads every work of fiction on the bookshelf, and he even picks up one of those stupid Wall Street books. He only gets through about six pages before chucking it to the floor in boredom. He spends as much time as he can avoiding Higgs, venturing into the kitchen when Higgs is showering or sleeping to grab food and retreat to the office.

The peculiar man is surprisingly tidy. The kitchen is always spotless, and he puts away leftovers in single-serve sized containers. Sam is grateful for the convenience; it’s easy just to grab a Tupperware and utensil and disappear. And since Higgs stays on top of the dishes, there’s always space in the dishwasher to place his piled-up mess.

Sam even develops a workout routine he can complete in the basement. They have limited internet access and no mobile devices, so he puts together a mix CD on the desktop computer and plays it on the boombox downstairs while he exercises. Since his gym playlist is on an iPod dutifully charging at his apartment, he has to rely on the discs for workout tunes. Normally he doesn’t even spend much time at the gym, since he gets a good amount of physical activity in from work and is usually too tired to exercise by the end of the day. Now, however, barely seeing the outside world and keeping couped up in a room for most of the day, Sam’s restless. He goes until he drops, until there’s sweat pouring off his face and he can barely move his arms, then he eats, showers, and passes out on the office floor next to the heater.

After several days of solitude and isolation, Sam is surprised when Higgs raps on the door.

“Okay sunshine, it’s time to knock it off.”

“Go away,” Sam replies, turning the page in _Murder Comes to Town_. It’s his third time reading it already.

The door opens, and Sam groans; he should have locked it.

“It’s not healthy to be alone so much. Come on, we’re going to the neighbor’s house.”

“No.” Sam stubbornly avoids looking at his housemate.

The book is snatched out of his hands. Higgs shuts it and holds it over his head. “Yes. You’re turning into a recluse.”

“I was already a recluse.”

“Come on. We’ve got to return that container, and Taylor said she’d make us dinner.”

Try as he might to play it cool, Sam’s stomach growls at the mention of food. Those muffins really were delicious, and he wouldn’t mind more from their creator.

“You’ve hardly eaten all week,” Higgs whines. “You can’t just do pushups and sleep all day. Come on. Put on some nice clothes.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Higgs drops to his knees. He reaches toward Sam, but stops when Sam flinches away. Instead, he drops the book and folds his hands together. “I promise I won’t make you do anything else all weekend.”

Shit, what day even is it? Saturday? Sam glances at his watch: yeah, it’s Saturday. They’ve been here for five days already.

Sam sideyes Higgs. “You’ll leave me alone entirely?”

“Promise.”

With a long, reluctant groan, Sam says, “Fine.”

Higgs cracks a huge smile and claps his hands once, loudly. “Wonderful. And run a comb through that mop, you look like a vagrant.”

As he stands, Sam blushes, smoothing his hair down with his hands.

He’s not quite sure what Higgs means by “nice clothes.” All he has are a few pairs of khakis Gutierrez sent and some Dockers shirts, along with a sweater or two that are, quite frankly, too snug for comfort.

Higgs talks him in to wearing one of the stupid sweaters, insisting it makes his shoulders “look nice.” It’s so tight it almost chokes him, and Sam can’t help but catch a glimpse of their reflections in the living room window; Sam looks – he feels – _ridiculous_. He is shorter and broader than Higgs, who looks like human spaghetti by comparison. His own shoulders are so square. Squarer than he’d ever realized until seeing their reflections side by side.

As Higgs pulls on his coat, Sam balks. “I…I can’t.”

“Just for dinner,” Higgs insists. “Don’t be a wimp.” The words don’t carry any real snap, Higgs’s tone soft and inviting. The contrast is confusing, and Sam curls in on himself, pulling at the taught collar of his sweater.

“I don’t know…” The familiar itching sensation breaks across his neck.

Higgs pauses, closes the door, and takes off his coat. “They’re just people,” he says – as though Sam doesn’t already know that! “I know you’re hungry. You won’t eat my food because, what, you think I’m going to poison you or some shit? But these are good people.” The corner of his mouth turns up. “Like I said, hate to see that pretty face wasting away.”

Sam feels hot, sweating in the foyer, and he doesn’t even have his coat on yet. “I’d rather stay in.”

“I know, and believe you me, so would I. Last thing I want to do is make small talk with a couple of lesbians. Do you know what lesbians like to talk about? Okay, neither do I – but I’m sure it’s boring!”

Sam can’t help but laugh, and he glares immediately after. “That’s rude.”

“See! I’m rude. I need you there to show I’m not a total asshat.”

Sam bites his tongue. _You are a total asshat, though_.

Like a mindreader, Higgs says, “Okay, fine, not that you’re much testament to that. But they can’t hate me when they see how sweet you are and know you’re my precious little hubby.”

“Nope.” Sam steps backward onto the carpet. “That settles it: I’m not going.”

“No, that’s not what I—” Higgs slaps both hands over his face and drags them down, slow and dramatic. “Look, I—if you come with me, I’ll get Gutierrez to order you a cot for that stupid office you keep sleeping in.”

It takes a few moments for Sam to process what he said. “You could do that this whole time?!”

“No!” Higgs thrusts a finger at him. “It won’t be easy. It will be a fight, because he’ll have a bunch of questions for me and think I’m treating you badly. And you have to admit, I’ve been really good about giving you space!”

Sam can’t argue; for the most part, Higgs has left him in peace. Despite his obvious wont for company.

“It will be humiliating and difficult, but I can get it for you! And I won’t do it unless you come with me.”

Sam growls. He pulls at his collar again. Stupid rash. Stupid…what did Gutierrez call it? His _phobia_ or whatever? _Stupid stupid STUPID._

“Fine.”

Higgs, looking giddy, thrusts a coat at him. “Bundle up. It’s cold as balls outside.”

The neighbors’ house is amazing. On the outside it blends right into the drab, upper-middle-class suburban neighborhood with mute colors and a well-shoveled driveway and walkway. A warm glow casts yellow squares onto the snow in the yard from its windows, and the patio light is on, welcoming their guests. It’s not even 7PM, but it’s near pitch dark outside.

The front room, however, tells a different story from the house’s dull exterior. The doorway is a portal into an old gothic mansion; the floor and walls are dark in color, with iron fixtures surrounding every light. They’re welcomed in with a smile and a cheery greeting by Taylor’s wife, Samantha. She’s just as tall as her counterpart, though notably thinner. Mousey-brown hair atop her head is streaked with silver, and her bare arms showcase decades of artwork in the form of tattoos. She’s a perfect contradiction to every punk child’s parent warning them of what their ink might look like in the future.

After a brief introduction, she chuckles and says, “My name’s Sam too! You can call me Samantha, to avoid confusion.” Her big blue eyes radiate warmth, surrounded by lines testifying the frequency of her huge smile. “Taylor’s in the kitchen, and the food’s almost ready. Get you anything to drink? Water, whiskey, wine…”

“I wouldn’t say no to a little whiskey,” Higgs says, settling himself on a big leather couch. There’s a fire roaring in the living room. “Sam?”

“Water,” he says, simply. “Thanks.”

Samantha nods. “Babe! Neighbors are here! Want a drink?”

Through the living room wall, Sam hears, “Wine please!”

When Samantha trots off to retrieve refreshments, Higgs hisses a _Psst_ at Sam.

Sam glares. “What?!”

Saying nothing, Higgs pats the couch next to him.

“Absolutely not,” Sam whispers.

“They’ll think it’s weird if you don’t,” Higgs whispers back.

“I’ll think it’s weird if I do!”

Higgs points at the seat, gesture a little more aggressive. “Don’t make me pull you to my side!”

“I’ll break your fucking nose,” Sam whispers through clenched teeth.

Samantha re-enters the room, three glasses precariously in her hands. Sam wipes the glare off his face, and Higgs looks up and smiles.

As she sets their drinks on the table, she says, “Please, make yourselves comfortable!”

“Yeah Sam,” Higgs says. He pats the couch next to him, loud slaps on leather. “Have a seat.”

Sam turns and wills lasers to shoot out of his eyes at the smug, skinny bastard on the couch. Unfortunately, his optics produce exactly zero lasers, and he stiffly seats himself on the edge of the couch on the cushion next to Higgs. Higgs stretches his arm over the back of the couch. He doesn’t touch Sam, but it’s close enough to make him itch.

Samantha holds a whiskey in her hand and sits in a big leather armchair, pulling socked feet up with her.

“Soooo,” she says, cradling her beverage. “How did you two meet?”

Sam and Higgs glance at each other. They’ve failed to plan sufficiently.

“Uh,” Higgs says, that _manic_ look returning to his eyes before they turn to their hostess. “Chance encounter, really.”

“He barreled into me in the street,” Sam provides, keeping his eyes locked on Higgs. “Like a bulldozer.”

Higgs’s eyes narrow and flicker in Sam’s direction. “Oh, you know, my line of sight was just a little high to see him in time.” He snickers. “’Cause he’s so short compared to me, you know.”

“Maybe if you took a moment to actually look where you’re going and how it affects the people around you—” Sam cuts off when Higgs’s hand clamps onto his shoulder. Cold chills run down his spine, and it takes every ounce of strength in his being not to violently shrug away the touch. His throat constricts, even as Higgs chuckles insincerely and pats the shoulder twice. Thankfully, he withdraws his hand fairly immediately.

“It was love at first sight,” Higgs says.

“Oh, alright,” Samantha says with a suspicious smirk. She takes a sip of whiskey.

Sam retrieves his water from the coffee table and takes a long draw, willing his heart rate back down. He inches a little farther from Higgs on the couch. Were his pulse closer to normal, he might have noticed the suspicious sweep of Samantha’s eyes over the pair of them.

“Anyway,” Higgs goes on, “we later agreed that the big city just wasn’t for us. Wanted a quieter life. Love this neighborhood here, and we just knew it was the one. Ain’t that right, Sammy?”

Sam stares at the cup in his hands. His knuckles have gone white. “Yep,” he manages to say.

“Well, dinner should be about done,” Samantha says. Her eyes have fallen on Sam’s tight grip, and he puts effort into lessening it.

_Deep breath in. Deep breath out._

“I’ll go check with Taylor.”

The table isn’t terribly large, but it’s solid, wooden, and stained dark. It looks expensive, almost to the point where Sam’s afraid to eat on it. It’s set with embossed plates and cutlery that looks like real silver, which Samantha huffs at.

“Really, babe? You trying to impress the new neighbors?”

Taylor gawks, setting a huge pot on a stone in the middle of the table. “I never get to use the fancy plates!”

“I didn’t say you can’t use the fancy plates!” Samantha laughs. “They’re just a little extra fancy for spaghetti.”

“Blasphemy,” Taylor says. She lifts the lid off the pot and, with a pair of tongs, starts scooping noodles onto each plate. “I made sauce, and I also made ground sausage. It’s all cooked separate – are either of you vegetarian?”

In unison, both Higgs and Sam say, “No.”

Taylor smiles a tight-lipped smile. “Just me, I’m the weirdo.”

Samantha rolls her eyes, but not at the expense of a good-natured smirk. “Yeah, so the _adults_ at the table would like meat in their sauce.”

“Meat in your sauce, but no wine with your spaghetti?” Taylor clicks her tongue. “Children’s palates.”

“Whiskey is a _very_ grown-up drink,” Higgs interjects.

With an open palm, Samantha gestures toward him. “Thank you!”

“Sam,” Taylor says, ignoring her wife’s playful admonition. “Would you like some wine to go with your spaghetti?”

He almost says no, but then…a little alcohol could potentially make this situation more bearable. And he’s never really had wine with spaghetti, though he’s heard it’s a good pair. “Sure,” he says.

“See?” Taylor smiles, leaning down to give Samantha a kiss on the cheek. “Adults.”

Samantha mumbles incoherently under her breath, smiling fondly as her wife pours a glass of wine for Sam and refills her own.

His perception that alcohol would make dinner more tolerable turns out to be correct. Even at the first sip, as warmth runs down his throat into his belly, Sam’s muscles begin to relax. By the time he empties his glass, Taylor is bringing out dessert – cherry dump cake – and Sam actually finds himself _smiling_ in response to the light conversation. Neither of the ladies ask personal questions, focusing instead on sharing hobbies and mutual entertainment. Sam didn’t watch much TV in his regular life, so he feels a little out of the loop as the other diners discuss The Price is Right and Game of Thrones and whatever else happens to come up in conversation. Still, he enjoys his wine buzz, spooning pastry into his mouth and listening to the pleasant voices around him. Even Higgs is less annoying through the hazy veil of ethanol.

Once cutlery stops clacking and conversation begins to dwindle, a testament no doubt to sleepy full bellies and drunkenness, Samantha stands and begins clearing plates. She refills Taylor’s glass for her and motions toward Sam with the bottle.

He shakes his head. “No, thanks.” He doesn’t drink regularly, and the last thing he needs is to get drunk at a virtual stranger’s house. Not that Higgs is placing any of the same restrictions on himself. He’s on his third whiskey, and it shows. His gestures are even more extravagant, arms flailing as he speaks, words big and loud and grandiose.

“Supposed to get a nasty storm next weekend,” Taylor muses. “Freezing rain and all that.”

“Damn, really?” Higgs says with a disappointed flourish.

She nods. “Hope it’s not as bad as the last one. 2005, ice storm knocked out the power for two weeks.”

“Holy shit! That would suck.”

“Especially with how cold it’s been.” She laughs. “We keep talking about getting a generator, and of course now it’s too late. Can’t find one anywhere with this storm coming. Got plenty of firewood though, enough to share if you need it.”

“Will remember that,” Higgs says – though Sam doubts Higgs will remember much from this evening.

“You guys gonna go to Mama’s stupid party?” Samantha asks, returning from the kitchen.

Higgs raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “ _Mama?”_

“Oh, that’s what we call the neighbor, Maggie,” Samantha explains. “She lives with her twin sister, and they’ve always got someone else’s toddler at their house. They’re like, the ultimate town babysitters. If Maggie’s busy, her sister Lockne is surely available and vice-versa.”

“Is that the _Holiday Soiree_ we got a mail invitation for?” Higgs asks.

Samantha nods. “The very same. I can’t stand Christmas,” she nudges her wife, “and Taylor _says_ she hates Christmas but every year we end up at Mama’s dumb get-togethers and this one gets blasted and sings Christmas music.” She clicks her tongue. “I should really revoke her Grinch card.”

Taylor gasps dramatically, lifting a hand to her chest and her glass to her lips. She says nothing in rebuttal, though, only taking a long draw of alcohol.

Samantha shrugs. “It’s not too bad until the music really gets going. That’s usually when we dip.”

“We’ve got a couple board games,” Taylor interrupts. “Just got a new Taboo. Friend’s toddler ate the prompt cards from the last box.” Her cheeks are flushed lush-pink as she laughs at her own statement. Sam can’t help a small smile.

“Oh, thank you for the offer,” Higgs says, his demeanor straightening a bit. “And thank you for dinner. Really, it was amazing, and you’ll have to let us repay you sometime. But I think we’re just gonna turn in.”

Sam glances at him, not quite certain he succeeds at masking his surprise. Higgs is keeping his word; dinner and nothing else. Maybe it’s the wine, but Sam feels a weight lift from him, comfort for the first time that this man is going to respect his wishes.

What he says next is definitely the wine’s fault. “We could stay for a game.”

Higgs turns to him, eyebrows raised. “You sure? I know you’re tired.”

Sam glances at his hands on the table, picking absently at a cuticle. “Sure. I’ve got one game in me.”

Higgs’s eyes go wide, and he slowly turns his gaze to Taylor, wolfish grin and all. “Well, I sure can’t disappoint my date. One game it shall be!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! There will be more characters from the game making later appearances, but I am entirely incapable of writing fanfic without a self-insert. Taylor is me, and Samantha is a good friend of mine. (we aren't a couple IRL, but I needed an LGBT couple to move the plot forward and since we're both attracted to women she agreed to be in lesbians with me c: )  
> Also, "Murder Comes to Town" by W. H. Beswick is a real book, and it's super fun and I highly recommend it. It's available on Amazon. 
> 
> Thank you for continuing to read! I'm having an absolute blast writing this and hope it's even a fraction as fun to read.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's coming out of his shell...and he's discovering that maybe Higgs has a shell, too.

Higgs nurses a hangover for the better part of their Sunday – making Sam grateful he thought to stop after one glass. He’s only been hungover a couple times in the past, but it’s not a feeling he ever wants to revisit.

Despite Higgs’s crabby mood, the general air in their hideaway feels lighter, fresher. The sun even comes out that afternoon, sending blinding light reflecting off the snow and through the windows.

With his counterpart out of commission for the day, Sam makes the only thing he knows he won’t screw up: a box of mac n’ cheese. It’s not exactly the _gourmet_ meals Higgs has been preparing, but the skinny man devours a full bowl and promptly requests seconds. Much of the anger building inside of Sam over the past several days has dwindled to almost nothing.

“Thanks,” Sam says, watching Higgs go to town on his second bowl.

“I should be thanking you. I have zero energy today. Nada.”

“I mean for being cool. Yesterday.” He could even forgive him for the hand on his shoulder at the beginning of the evening.

“Well, I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a fuckin’ liar. Speaking of which, I owe you a cot.”

“Cool.” Sam nods.

“Oh,” Higgs says, “can I ask you a favor?”

“Uh…”

“Maybe don’t tell Daddy Gutierrez how much I had to drink last night. I mean, we’re allowed to drink, but…” He shrugs. “Y’know.”

“Okay, sure.” Sam nods. Maybe this crazy human isn’t actually the worst being in existence. Oh, he’s up there, but he’s no longer number one on the list.

“Thanks Sammy.” Higgs scoops the last bite of macaroni into his mouth, then stands to place his bowl in the dishwasher. “I’m gonna take a bath!” he announces.

“What the hell did you do to the tub?” Sam calls.

“Whaddya mean?” replies Higgs’s sleepy voice.

“It’s disgusting!”

A head of messy, wet hair appears in the doorway. “Explain?”

“It’s slimy!”

Higgs laughs. “Oh, it’s just a little oil, calm down.”

“Why is there oil in the tub?”

“From the bath bomb!”

Despite his irritation, one corner of Sam’s mouth threatens to turn upward into a smile. “You use bath bombs?”

Higgs makes a dismissive gesture, but his face colors slightly pink. “If you don’t like it, toss a little Dawn on there. It’ll clean up easy.”

“Lavender,” Sam says. “Delicate. Flowery.”

“Fine, I’ll clean it up for you since you’re gonna be a princess about it.”

As Higgs walks away, Sam mutters, “I’m not the one who _smells_ like a princess.”

“I heard that!”

Under his breath, Sam snickers.

“Look what arrived!” Higgs’s merry voice calls from the doorway. An icy gust whips the front door open with a loud _bang._

Sam, who is taking a swig of Monster, startles at the sound and nearly chokes. He coughs violently, spitting a mouthful of yellow-green liquid all over the kitchen counter.

“You good?” In an instant, Higgs appears on the far side of the island. He watches Sam sputter a moment, before apparently deciding he’s fine.

Another moment later, and the door shuts against the harsh wind. Higgs reappears with a huge box in his arms. “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

With a paper towel at his chin, Sam cocks a cynical eyebrow.

“Relax, sugar lips. It’s to protect your back from that mean old floor.”

“Oh.” Sam drops the expression in favor of a happier one. He’d nearly forgotten about his Saturday evening dinner bribe. After cleaning the rest of his mess from the counter and floor, Sam excitedly cuts the box open.

Rolled up in a tight little wad is a narrow mattress. It’s quite heavy; he’s surprised Higgs carried it so effortlessly. The guy’s skinny, but he’s strong. Sam cuts a hefty layer of vacuum-sealed plastic wrap in a neat slit down the side, and the mattress slowly unfurls. It’s a little smaller than a twin mattress, but Sam doesn’t need much.

“Says to leave it out of the plastic for 24 hours before using,” Higgs says, pointing to an instruction on the cardboard.

“Smells weird,” Sam says.

Higgs leans forward and aggressively sniffs the cot. He pauses, closes his eyes, and does it again. Then he shrugs. “Not too bad.” God, he’s weird.

Sam grimaces. “Got any Febreze?”

“I’ll look.”

While Higgs rummages through cabinets, Sam gathers the plastic wrap to dispose of it. The little rectangle continues to unfurl and inflate, looking more and more like a surface to sleep on as the minutes pass. It’s mostly firm, but the thin white layer on one side is significantly softer. Sam pushes a hand into it experimentally, and the imprint lingers for a few seconds before disappearing.

“Really went all-out,” he mutters.

“Nothing but the best for our Sammy!” Higgs’s voice is muffled, head underneath the kitchen sink.

“It’s nice,” Sam admits, pressing his palm into the material over and over. “It’ll beat the floor.”

Higgs pops up in a triumphant pose, spray bottle in hand. “Y’know, you could have been sleeping in the bed this whole time. It’s big enough for the both of us.”

Sam chortles. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

Both heads turn toward the large living room window as a light tinkling sound fills the house. It looks like sleet – maybe small hail? – and the sky is dark.

Sam says, “Really think it’ll storm like Samantha said?”

With a shrug, Higgs replies, “It’d be fitting.”

When Sam only responds with a questioning look, Higgs goes on.

“You know, gloomy week, gloomy living situation, gloomy, broody boy.”

Sam blushes, returning his gaze to the cot. “I’m not _broody_.”

Higgs scoffs. “Strange, I seem to recall there being plenty of mirrors in this house.”

“We should make sure we have wood for the fireplace,” Sam muses, decidedly ignoring the remainder of Higgs’s commentary.

“And that it’s even usable,” Higgs agrees. “Place has electric heat, so I doubt the fireplace is gas. Probably good old-fashioned wood-burning.”

As Sam spritzes his new bed with the aerosol, Higgs strolls over to the hearth and pulls open the glass fireplace cover. “Lot of soot in here.” He slides open the screen and sticks his hand into the opening. “Hope there’s nothing stuck in the flue.” His long body has to bend far to reach up toward the chimney, and Sam can hear his hand _pat pat patting_ on the brick inside in search of the flue handle. There’s a long, low, _crreeeeaaaaaaakkk,_ followed by a mild draft…

…and then Higgs, tough, carefree, nonchalant, too-cool-for-school Higgs, shrieks like a child.

The sound startles Sam. He’d only been paying vague attention to Higgs in his periphery, but when the lithe man screams his head snaps up; Higgs has sprinted, barefoot, out the back door. Sam’s eyes go wide, and he stands to look out the ajar egress. Higgs is stripping in the sleet, throwing his clothes to the ground and frantically brushing at his hair and arms. He looks like he’s lost his goddamn mind.

Sam turns and walks toward the fireplace, and then he sees what set him off: a huge gaggle of harvestmen are marching out of the fireplace. Long, skinny legs on beady little bodies, the spiders spread across the wall like an arachnid blanket. And Sam? Sam bursts out laughing. Weak with laughter, he leans against the doorway, watching Higgs – now in just his boxers – continues to dance and brush. His pale skin has gone bright red, lips blue and teeth chattering as he tries to remove phantom bugs from his body.

Finally, Sam takes pity and says, “There’s none left on you. Come inside before your toes freeze off.” He doesn’t take so much pity that he stops laughing, though.

“This isn’t fucking _funny,_ Bridges!”

Higgs’s outrage just makes Sam laugh harder, until tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he’s doubled over, supporting himself on the wood of the doorframe. Even Higgs smacking him in the arm doesn’t make him stop.

When he hears the shower running, he realizes Higgs is no longer in the yard and he should probably shut the door – it’s getting cold. Still cackling to himself, Sam does so, then rummages around in the basement until he finds a vacuum cleaner. He sucks up as many spiders as he can find. Well, maybe he leaves one or two on purpose. As a gift for his roommate.

Higgs finally emerges, wet hair slicked to his face, cheeks rosy and eyebrows drawn into a harsh scowl. “Some fucking day,” he grumbles. “I need a goddamn drink.”

“It’s like 1PM.” Sam’s voice still carries amused tones.

“I just had a near-death experience!” Higgs retorts. His features soften a little, some of the playful wolfishness returning to his countenance.

“Those spiders couldn’t have hurt you.”

“You don’t know that! What are you, a spider expert?!”

“They’re daddy long legs. Hardly even spiders.” Sam snickers. “And they’re not venomous.”

Higgs scoffs. “Ok Mr. Entomologist.”

“Baby.”

Higgs brushes past him, purposely bumping his shoulder on his way to the kitchen, to the fridge, and pulls out a beer. “Don’t think I’m making you dinner tonight!”

“I got all the spiders out,” Sam offers, dismissively.

Higgs takes a long draw of his beverage, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and burps. Then, he says, “Oh, a little progress on our case.”

“Say we get to go home.”

“No such luck. But Gutierrez is concerned our department has a mole. Thinks that’s how McClane even found me in the first place.”

“So whoever it is…”

“Is responsible for this whole…thing,” Higgs confirms. He sets his drink on the table then takes a seat himself. “For marring your beautiful face…”

Sam raises a bashful hand to his still-healing nose.

“For us being trapped out in Winter Wonderland, for today’s horrendous arachnid fiasco.”

Sam smirks.

Higgs sighs. “Anyway, I’ll make sure you personally get a chance to kick him in the nuts. Or her. In the…well, nevermind.” He takes another pull. “Anyway, Gutierrez thinks he has some leads, and we could be clear soon. The trial is in a couple of weeks, so at the very least I can testify and get those assholes locked up for good.”

Sam sits down in the loveseat – close enough to hold conversation, but far enough for comfort. “What did they do, anyway?”

Higgs picks at the label on his bottle. “Real nasty shit.”

“Like what?”

Higgs shrugs. “Smuggling.”

“Like…drugs? Guns?”

“Among other things.”

Sam cocks his head, waiting expectantly.

Higgs sighs and works his jaw. “Shit you don’t do. That’s all, okay?”

“That how you got roped into…” Sam trails off and then dips his head. “Sorry. I’ll stop asking questions.”

“You mean am I a drug addict?” Higgs snorts. “Because of this? No. I used to be though, a long time ago. It’s why I went on. I used to run with some of the guys in McClane’s group, so they trusted me.” He points a finger. “But I’ve been clean for a decade. A _decade_ , Sam. I didn’t…I would never get back into that shit.”

This is the most sincere Higgs has been since Sam met him. He thinks maybe he should throw spiders at him more often. “I didn’t think—”

“Never.” Higgs punctuates with his finger on the table. “No matter what they say about me at the department. I know what they think. I don’t care what they think.”

“Shouldn’t care what people think,” Sam mutters with a small nod. He keeps his eyes on his own hand, picking at the seam of the armrest.

“And I don’t.” Higgs sounds a little defensive.

“I know.”

Higgs downs the rest of his beer and tosses the bottle into the trash can, then rises for another. “Those assholes got a lot of time to gossip back there at the station. They have no idea what it’s like in the field, what it’s like to be surrounded by your demons and still make the right choice. They think it’s funny, some kind of joke they can sling at me when they’re annoyed.” He shrugs, popping the lid off his bottle. “It’s fine. It’s not funny, but whatever.”

Unsure what to say, Sam just nods. The tinkling of rain on glass grows louder.

Higgs clears his throat. His voice sounds tense, but he slaps a smile on his face anyway and says, “I’m gonna call in some firewood for us.” As he flips open his cell and dials, Sam keeps his eyes downcast. He supposes he gets it now, to an extent. Higgs plays cool, but he’s just as much of an outcast as Sam. All of his flirting and obnoxious, aggressive swagger is his way of compensating for insecurities. And in that moment, Sam realizes he doesn’t hate the guy. Hasn’t really hated him for a few days. He’s just doing his best in a world that kicks his ass, around people who won’t accept what he is or what he needs to survive. Just like Sam.

“Hey Officer Englert, put me through to Gutierrez,” Higgs says. A pause. “What? You know the rules, all communication has to go straight to him… Yeah, and I can’t just give you our address, Pete. It’s called a safe house, not a _tell the whole station where you are_ house… Maybe under different circumstances I would, but I’m already in deep shit as it is and I’d rather not get deeper. Or worse, get in Gutierrez’s bad graces.”

Officer Pete. The grabby asshole from the station. Sam pulls his arms closer to his body, remembering thick fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, dragging him out of a holding cell. His skin pricks.

“Enough; if you don’t put me through, I’ll call Jacobs and he’ll tattle. That’s what I thought, thanks.”

Sam watches as Higgs jovially, carelessly, chats to his former C.O. It’s amazing how he’s just switched it back on, that happy-go-lucky casual demeanor. He looked to be on the verge of spilling tears only moments ago, and now he’s delightedly requesting firewood and joking about cuddling with hot cocoa. Maybe someday he’ll learn to have a mask like that, instead of one that makes people immediately label him as…he frowns at the word… _broody_.

Higgs is sure to sternly demand pest control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear anyone who has stuck around this long: I hope you're enjoying this story. I'm still having the BEST time writing it, and I'm really enjoying getting your feedback as the writing progresses. I think this is about the 1/3 or 1/4 point (like I said it'll be short!) but the next chapter...I'm most excited to write. It's about to get spicy in the hideout :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, the power is out, and baby...it's COLD outside.

It’s 10AM on Thursday when the television blinks off. Sam was hardly watching anyway, more staring blankly at some Hallmark movie, but the sudden silence is jarring. He looks up; the hall light is off too.

Higgs shouts from the kitchen, “Well, power’s out!” He emerges with a pan in one hand and a spatula in the other. “Good timing. I just finished cooking breakfast.”

Sam says, “Think it’ll be out long?”

All Higgs offers in return is a shrug.

“I didn’t shower yet,” Sam says with annoyance.

“Well, there should be enough hot water for one more shower. I’d grab it before the tank cools.”

“Good thinking,” Sam says, standing and heading toward the bathroom.

“I’ll get a fire started!” Higgs calls after him. “And set the table for breakfast!”

“I already ate,” Sam calls back. He grabs a set of clothes and a flashlight from the office and shuts himself in the bathroom. It’s probably best to get a shower over with anyway. As he undresses, the air already feels chillier than before…which is ridiculous. Not enough time has passed for it to be any colder. He pulls the shower curtain back and shines the flashlight into the tub. He’s not necessarily afraid of the spiders that sent Higgs screeching half-naked into the backyard, but that doesn’t mean he wants to share a bath with one.

The scent of lavender wafts up from the open stall. Sam frowns. He leans down to run a finger along the inside of the tub: oily.

“Higgs!” he bellows. He snatches a towel and wraps it around his waist, storming into the living room. A tiny fire is just beginning to grow in the fireplace. Higgs is crouched before it, carefully stacking logs over the flames.

“You left that shit in the tub again.”

The exaggerated roll of Higgs’s head tells Sam he probably rolled his eyes too, and he stands up with an annoyed sigh. As he turns, he says, “Sorry _Princess_ , I’ll—”

He freezes when his eyes fall on Sam. The _Duraflame_ wrapper in his hand falls to the ground, his face stalled with jaw slightly agape.

Sam suddenly feels very exposed, like the towel is several meters too small, and heat blooms in his cheeks. And it’s too dark to tell…but it kinda looks like Higgs is… _blushing_? After several long, uncomfortable moments of Higgs staring with his jaw on the floor, Sam clears his throat. Higgs snaps out of it.

“Uh—s-sorry, I’ll—” he stutters, eyes wide, and darts toward the kitchen. “I’ll clean it! I’ll be quick! Don’t want you to have a—a cold shower…” his gaze turns to Sam then snaps away, and he marches stiffly down the hall.

Sam wants to collapse in on himself. What was he thinking, coming out here in just a towel? And of all the ways Higgs could have responded, the ways he was _expecting_ him to respond…maybe some suggestive comment about his body, sure, but that he could handle. Not Higgs falling apart like that. Sam has never seen the man speechless. The warmth in his cheeks spreads to his neck and down his torso. He’s gotten to the point of not hating the guy, but now he has to think…no, he doesn’t _have to think_ anything. Higgs just wasn’t expecting him to come out into the living room in such a state of undress. It was probably shocking, considering how private Sam has been during their time living together.

_I’m such a dumbass_ , Sam thinks. He should have taken one second to throw his clothes back on. While he stands there rethinking every life decision that’s led him to this moment, Higgs emerges, rag and soap in hand. He keeps his eyes straight forward as he passes Sam, and he returns to the fireplace and crouches before it.

“All clean!” Higgs says.

Sam grumbles a thanks and hurries to take his shower before the hot water fades away.

When Sam returns to the living area, feeling clean at last, he notes the temperature has already dropped. The house is dark, sunshine blotted out by dark clouds and thick, cold drops that turn to ice when they touch down. A few candles flicker on various surfaces: on the table, on the kitchen island, and a couple on each side of the mantle over the fireplace. The fire is tall now, and Higgs huddles before it under a blanket, flashlight in one hand and book in the other. There’s a blanket folded neatly on the couch. Atop it sits a plate of food.

“This for me?” Sam asks.

“Sure is.” Higgs doesn’t look up.

Sam lifts the plate, drapes the blanket over his shoulders, pulling wet hair out from beneath it, and sits on the floor by the hearth. Higgs does glance up then, but only a moment before he smiles and his eyes fall back to the book. He’s reading _Death of a Nice Guy_ , by W. H. Beswick.

In silence, they sit and eat and read. Sam watches flames dance in the fireplace as he chews. For once, he finds himself actually enjoying the company of another. Probably because Higgs’s mouth is closed, eyes focused on the words, huffing a snort of amusement here and there. His presence radiates warmth in the dim room, a strange comfort to which Sam is wholly unaccustomed. Rain continues to patter outside, tinkling softly as it adds layers to the frozen glass of their windows. The house creaks and groans, wind whistling through the gutters. Weather sounds are just barely audible over the crackle from the fireplace. Heat blasts from it in waves, leaving Sam’s back feeling cold despite the blanket. He pulls it tighter and scoots closer, hunching over his plate.

“It’s only gonna get colder,” Higgs comments. His eyes are still on the pages.

Instinctively, Sam shivers. “The insulation is crap.”

Higgs nods a silent agreement. After another moment, he says, “This book is better than the first one.”

“ _Who Killed the Ice Cream Lady_ is even better,” Sam says.

“There’s another one?!”

“At least one more, yeah. I bet there’s more, but that’s all that are here.”

“We gotta find ’em and get copies.” Higgs sighs. “Never thought I’d want books, of all things.”

Sam cracks a small smile. In the firelight, Higgs’s blue eyes glitter with specks of amber. Short brown hair sticks off his head in all directions, adorably unkempt. His usual thin-lipped smirk relaxed into a content line, creases in his forehead smooth. His long face looks softer, angles blurred by shadows and flame. The stubble on his face looks like a dark blur instead of light whiskers. His eyes roam over printed words unhurriedly. He looks human. He looks…

…handsome.

The moment the thought crosses Sam’s mind, Higgs’s eyes turn up toward his, and he smiles. It’s a different smile than he’s ever given Sam before, gentle and genuinely happy. Sam’s breath leaves in a gust, sucked out by the man’s inquisitive gaze.

“What’re you starin’ at, princess?”

Sam’s face heats up, caught looking at Higgs like _that_ , and he turns back toward the fire. Thinking fast, he says, “Just wondering what part of the book you’re at.” He side-eyes the lithe man – a mistake. Higgs’s tongue darts over his bottom lip, and Sam knows he can see him watch it. Neither of them moves for several beats.

The book closes, and Higgs looks like he might be about to say something when, over the sound of the rain and wind and fire, there’s a knock at the door.

Both of them jump, startled out of whatever strange trance they’d put themselves in. Higgs stands up first. “Coming!” he calls.

Sam exhales, suddenly aware of his heart hammering against his ribs. What in the arctic hell was _that_?

The neighbors are at the door, and Higgs ushers them in, quickly closing the door behind. In just that brief moment, a great deal of freezing cold air manages to seep into the house, and Sam pulls the blanket closer.

Wrapped in thick coats, gloves, scarves, hats, and wet boots, Samantha and Taylor shuck footwear at the door. Their arms are loaded with items, which they cart into the living area and begin setting down.

“What’s all this?” Higgs asks.

Samantha looks around the barren room and smirks. “Thought you could use some supplies. Looks like we were right.”

“Propane space heater,” Taylor says, patting a hefty device on the floor. She holds up a plastic bag. “Brought an extra tank. It works best in small spaces. We usually have one in the bedroom and one in the living room, but figured y’all could use one and we could just cuddle.”

Higgs and Sam exchange the briefest of glances, implications of Taylor’s statement not lost on either of them.

“You guys good on food?” Samantha asks.

“Yeah,” Higgs says. “Got some canned stuff in the pantry, and some crackers and stuff.”

“If you’ve got milk or anything that expires in the fridge,” Taylor says, “just stick it outside.”

Higgs laughs. “Good thinking.”

Taylor opens up another bag and pulls out two bottles of wine and a half-empty fifth of whiskey, while Samantha pulls a stack of board games from another, setting them on the coffee table.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Sam says, softly. He stands, pulling the blanket tight around his chin.

Both women scoff and smile. “Please,” Samantha says. “We’re a community. We take care of each other.”

“This is really generous,” Sam goes on. “Thanks.”

“Seriously.” Higgs gestures with his head and chuckles. “This is way more than we probably need. How long do you think the blackout will last, anyway?”

“Could be a day, could be a week.” Taylor snickers. “Would be such a shame if the power was out for Mama’s _Holiday Soiree_. Whatever would we do without that dumb party.”

She and Samantha exchange knowing looks and laugh. The last item they present is a battery-powered lantern. “For the games,” Samantha explains. “Trust me, the flashlights…not great for that.”

“And don’t sit too close to the candles,” Taylor adds. “Can damage your eyes.”

Higgs raises both eyebrows. “I did not know that.”

“Read about that,” Sam says.

“Of course you did,” Higgs says with a laugh.

Sam scowls. “Don’t say it.”

Higgs looks at him and smirks. “Nerd.”

He can’t help it; Sam smiles.

“Awwww.” Samantha smiles, putting a hand on Taylor’s arm. “You guys are adorable.”

Sam and Higgs break eye contact, Higgs toward their guests and Sam back toward the fireplace.

Higgs clears his throat. “Would you ladies care to join us for a drink and a game?”

“Oh, no thank you,” Taylor says. “We’re gonna go home and get under the covers. Much warmer. You guys should be under the same blanket! Trust me, it’s way better.”

Sam can _hear_ the grin in Higgs’s voice. “You’re so right. Body heat is pretty great, right Sam?”

Sam does turn then, daggers in his eyes. _Don’t even think about it_.

Higg’s grin spreads. “Right?”

Sam works his jaw, biting back any snarky rebuttals. He inclines his head. “Right.”

Triumphantly, Higgs turns back toward their neighbors. “Well, we can’t thank you enough for all this stuff. This will make the next…however long…way more comfy.”

For a brief pause, Samantha’s eyes narrow. She glances covertly at Taylor – a look Sam almost misses – before smiling and continuing on with a few more offers of hospitality. Finally, they bid farewell to Samantha and Taylor. Higgs hurriedly closes the door behind them. Thankfully, Sam thinks, some of the magic has faded. Higgs is just annoying once again, and Sam doesn’t have any _other_ thoughts about his stupid face, or his crystal eyes.

Higgs opens up his blanket in a welcoming gesture. “Wanna cuddle?”

“Not on your life.”

Higgs shrugs and swipes the whiskey from the table. “Suit yourself.” He unscrews the cap and takes a swig, winces, and then sighs and smacks his lips in satisfaction.

Sam watches the closed door for a moment. “You see that?”

“Hmm?” Higgs hums, settling back into his spot.

“They know something is up.”

“How’s that?”

Sam shakes his head. “Just a feeling. They’re not buying this _couple_ thing.”

With a smirk, Higgs says, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to sell it a little harder.”

Sam swallows dryly.

Even huddled before the fire with the space heater running on its highest setting, the house continues to cool. Sam dons a pair of socks and a sweatshirt, and he keeps the blanket pulled tightly around him. Higgs doesn’t seem quite as bothered, but he’s still cold. He eventually gives up reading in favor of cocooning himself within the blanket, only sticking his hands out to drink.

Sam grudgingly accepts a swig, knowing it’ll warm him up a little. The burn makes his jaw go tight and his shoulders shudder, but when heat spreads through his chest and belly it’s worth it. Some of the tension leaves him, and he closes his eyes, watching colors flicker behind their lids.

It’s hard to tell when the sun goes down, since it’s been dark all day and the windows are coated in an ever-thickening layer of ice. They snack on some crackers and peanut butter, and when the whiskey’s gone Higgs uncorks a wine and drinks straight from the bottle.

He must be drunk, because eventually Higgs says, “You’re kinda like Santa.”

Sam blinks and turns to him. “How you figure?”

“Bringing gifts to people. You know, delivering stuff n’ whatnot. Must be nice to bring joy to faces instead of making them all hate you.”

He’s never really considered that aspect of his job. Delivering packages was just an easy way to avoid customer service, and once he figured out how good he was at it he never went back. Sam shrugs. “I guess.”

“Seriously,” Higgs goes on. “Being a cop sucked. I’m glad I got fired, to be honest. I feel like all I ever did was bust down doors and lock people away. Get in fights all the time.” He sighs. “Good people hated me. Fuck,” he laughs, “I hated myself.” He takes a long drink of wine.

Sam says nothing.

Quietly, in such a demure fashion that he must surely be possessed by a meeker man, Higgs says, “But I never hated myself as much as now.”

Sam frowns. “Shouldn’t hate yourself.”

Higgs scoffs. “You have no idea. If you knew…” He goes dead quiet for a moment, staring blankly into the fire. “If you knew the half of it, you would hate me too.” He glances at Sam a moment and scoffs again. “Hell, you probably hate me anyway. You’d hate me more, though.”

Sam sighs. “I don’t.”

“Liar. You ever had a broken nose before?”

Sam shakes his head.

“That’s what I thought. I mean,” he gestures widely, the blanket slipping from his shoulders to the floor. “Look at this shit! Look at where we are. This sucks. It’s ok, you can say it: this _sucks_. It’s cold as fuck, you’re away from your friends and family, all because I’m a selfish fucking idiot who can’t just do his goddamn job.” Another big drink.

“You didn’t take me from anything,” Sam says, softly.

“Please. You don’t have to pretend. It’s condescending.”

“You didn’t,” Sam insists.

“We’re totally isolated out here,” Higgs goes on. “No contact with anyone. Doesn’t that make you mad? And it’s all my fault.”

“I don’t have anyone.”

Higgs goes quiet. After a moment, he says, “That can’t be true.”

Sam clenches his jaw, watches an ember fall from a log and whither away to nothing in the soot. “It is. No family. No friends.”

“No friends? Not one friend? One single person you would call, if you could call anyone?”

His throat feels tight. “You’re not the only one with problems.”

Higgs blanches at that, turns his head to stare fully at Sam. The gaze burns into his face, making him squirm until he looks back.

Higgs says, “There’s no way. You’re…perfect.” The way he says it, the gentility with which the word _perfect_ passes his lips, it’s almost reverent. Almost intimate. It hits Sam in the gut, makes his stomach clench and his heart race.

“I’m not,” Sam says. “Not even close.”

“Fucking lies.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Sam says, softly. He tries not to sound chastising; he’s not sure he succeeds. “You’re…social. You can talk to anyone, any way you like. You say what you want. You move around people like they’re part of you. I’m—I’m not like that. The opposite. I always say the wrong thing, I’m…” He can’t bring himself to say what he feels. That he’s scared. That the scars he bears are all inside, where no doctor can stitch them up. Where no one can see that he’s tender. He can tell Higgs that he’s never had a broken nose, but not that he’s had his heart smashed into a thousand pieces and then a thousand more, that it’s held together with packing tape and cardboard and he’s placed barbed wire around it for protection. The man is expecting him to go on, so he just says, “I’m not tough like you.”

“ _Pfft_. You think I’m like this ’cause I’m tough?” Higgs chuckles and takes another drink. “Please.”

They sit in silence awhile longer.

“Jacobs says you’ve got some kind of sickness,” Higgs finally says.

Sam shrugs. “I guess.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.” _Every day I’m reminded how different I am and that I’ll never have what they have_. “Not really, though.” _It’s almost unbearable_.

Higgs just nods. “Me too. They say I’m cured, but there’s really no cure for what’s inside, right?”

Sam’s heart beats faster. Higgs’s eyes almost look past him, like he can read every thought. “There’s really not.”

“It’s okay to say it,” Higgs continues. “I don’t like to because it’s scary. It reminds me what I am.”

Sam’s hands tremble, and he’s grateful for the blanket to hide them. Somehow, he can’t tear his eyes away.

“You don’t have to, though. That’s okay, too. We all gotta do it our way.”

Perhaps it’s the cold, but Sam suddenly feels he can’t catch his breath. His heart is tympanic, pulsing in his ears and throat. He swears Higgs’s face is inches from his, even though they’re nowhere near actually touching. But the hives don’t rise. Part of him itches to reach out, place his hand on the other man’s, be an anchor, tell him it’s alright to feel incomplete, to feel stupid and alone. Still, he can’t move.

Finally, Higgs turns away, lifting the bottle again to his lips. “Anyway, can’t wait to find out who killed poor ol’ Donny.” He retrieves his book from the hearth.

Sam huffs out a shaky breath, looking to the fire as well. “And with poison from a frog,” he manages to say. “Crazy, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday today! I'm 27 :o anyway, here is my birthday gift for me...from me, to y'all. Hope you enjoy hehehe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Higgs is an idiot. But Sam...Sam might be a bigger idiot.

_Falling…_

_Falling…_

_Falling…_

_…BOOM!_

Sam’s head jerks up with a start. It’s fucking _freezing_. His fingers and toes ache, and he curls up into a tighter ball on the floor.

Too cold. His heart won’t stop racing. Every time he dozes off, he dreams of falling, or freezing, or being chased by the masked man with a gun.

The most disturbing dream isn’t violent, though. It’s a vision of himself, walking into the restroom at his old house. It’s the sound of the bathtub overflowing, of police radios and ambulances wailing. It’s tinted water touching his toes as he falls to his knees in horrified disbelief. He wakes from that dream with a gasp, barely biting back a surprised cry. When he shifts, Higgs’s head pops up.

“You awake?” Higgs whispers.

“Yeah.” There’s no copper scent to sting his nose. No cold corpse waiting to stare at him with lifeless eyes. Sam exhales a shaky breath.

The fire has died down to embers. It’s probably around 2AM, but Sam doesn’t want to stick his hand out into the cold air to check his watch.

Higgs says, “I think the heater’s out.”

Sam shivers. “Want me to change the tank?” He really doesn’t want to climb out of his cocoon. He knows it’ll take forever to warm up again.

“This room’s too big,” Higgs says. He grunts. “We should move to a smaller room.”

“Move?” Sam whines, burying his face in his blanket.

Teeth chattering, Higgs stands. “I can’t sleep on the floor anymore. You coming?” He starts dragging the heater across the carpet, doing his best to keep the blanket wrapped around him while pulling.

With a long groan of frustration, Sam stands. His bubble of warmth dissipates as cold air stirs around him. His teeth chatter too, and he shuffles pathetically after Higgs.

With the new tank screwed in and the sad little heater flipped back on, Higgs closes the bedroom door. He climbs into the bed, pulling the edges of the covers down around him.

“You should get in here,” Higgs says, worming farther under the covers.

“Not in a million years,” Sam says. He lies on the floor nearly touching the heater, opening his blanket to let some of the warm air in. It’s not enough. He touches the grate, testing to see how hot it is. It seems safe, so he turns around and presses his back to it, head fully under the blanket. Still not warm enough. Still, he’s so tired he almost manages to doze off.

“It’s fucking cold,” Higgs says. His voice is muffled by layers of covers.

Sam grunts in agreement.

“Please just come up here and get under the covers. It’ll be so much warmer.”

Sam huffs. Maybe if he doesn’t respond, Higgs will shut up.

“ _Saaaaaaaammy_!”

“I’m trying to sleep, asshole.”

“It’s too cold.”

“If I come up there, will you be quiet?”

“I swear it.”

“Fine.” Sam hurriedly stands, ignoring Higgs’s excited expression as he opens the blankets invitingly. “You face away.”

“I get to be little spoon?” The question is more in mischief than seriousness.

“I’ll go back to the floor.”

“Okay, okay!” Reluctantly, Higgs turns over.

Sam tentatively climbs onto the bed. _Holy shit, it’s soft. I’ve been missing out on this?!_ He turns the other way. Even allows Higgs to wriggle so their backs are touching. And he’s right…within just a few minutes, the temperature under the blanket is almost comfortable. He’s pissed. But he’s finally warm.

“Shirts off would be warmer,” Higgs suggests.

“You said you’d shut up.”

Under his breath, Higgs mutters, “I’m just saying.”

Fingers and toes still chilly, the hum of the weak heater a few feet away, to the rhythm of Higgs’s steady breathing, Sam finally falls into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

It’s dark. It’s wonderfully warm. Sam feels wrapped in comfort, limbs heavy, eyes puffy. He could sleep another decade. Birds sing somewhere in the far distance. A pleasant heartbeat sounds in his ears. It’s…not his own. It’s slower. _Breathing_. A pair of hands pull tighter against his back. The breathing is above his head. A faint lavender aroma fills his lungs.

Sam’s eyes pop open when he realizes he’s not only snuggled against Higgs, he’s burrowed tightly against his chest. Maybe he’s groggier than he thought, because he can’t quite bring himself to fight it. Especially when he pops out from under the covers for a moment and is blasted in the face with chilly air. He can’t stand to be smothered, though, so he turns his back and releases an internal sigh of resignation when long arms wrap sleepily around his chest, and hot breath caresses his neck.

_It’s important to stay warm anyway,_ he reasons. _And it would be cruel to wake him after the night we had._ Despite his internal bargaining monologue, Sam’s pulse quickens. His breathing goes shallow. He can feel heat against every part of him, searing where Higgs’s hands rest against his chest, where breath tickles his ear, where Higgs’s narrow torso presses against his back and legs. His steady heartbeat, _thump…thump…thump…_ is actually comforting in the quiet of the room. A sliver of sunlight creeps through the window. They’re hidden beneath thick blankets, but Sam can picture long, pale fingers against his sweater, the expanse of his broad chest. He can feel every finger through layers of fabric, imagines he can feel every line on their prints, every crease in slender palms. If Higgs is awake, Sam knows he can feel his heart jackhammering. He prays the man is unconscious, breathing slowly and willing his nerves to settle. It feels too pleasant to break the embrace. He’s willing to risk it. He forces his muscles to untangle themselves, trying to relax back into slumber. _Would be warmer with shirts off_. Higgs’s sleepy suggestion echoes through Sam’s head. What would it feel like if Higgs was pressed against him skin-to-skin? Sam wills the thought away.

As he settles, though, Higgs hums a sleepy, appreciative sigh, arms tightening around him. His nose nestles against the crook of Sam’s neck. Their bodies are totally flush now. Higgs pushes his thighs against Sam’s. Still asleep, he mumbles something incoherent, something containing Sam’s name for certain. It sounds distantly like a mild scolding, but the words are too gibberish to be certain. An even worse realization dawns.

Close as they are, tight as their bodies are pressed together, Sam feels the distinct impression of Higgs’s _morning wood_ on his lower back. His face flushes beet red. Is Higgs…is he having a dream about Sam? Is it typical _morning time body function_ , or is whatever made Higgs sleep-mutter Sam’s name also giving him an erection? Body heat can’t account for how hot it gets under the covers, sweat beading on Sam’s brow despite the freezing room. What’s the protocol _now_? It feels wrong to let this continue any further, invasive somehow to each of them but in a different way.

The miracle Sam needs finally arises. There’s a _thud_ and a hum. The heater. His eyes dart up to the alarm clock on the night stand; it blinks a steady _12:00_. The power’s back. It’s still freezing in the house, but it won’t be for long. Sam gingerly pries Higgs’s arms from around him – a task which proves to be a struggle, as the sleeping man is highly reluctant to release his little spoon – tucks the blanket toward him, and climbs out of the bed.

Higgs mutters again, an unhappy utterance, then rolls over, scooping the blanket to his chest.

Sam releases a shaky breath. He tells himself he’s repulsed by what he’s just experienced, that there’s no way in seven hells he’s going to allow it to reoccur. That if Higgs _is_ having an _adult_ dream about him, it’s perverted and wrong, and Sam is disgusted by the notion.

He’s not certain he’s telling himself the truth.

It’s mid-morning when Higgs walks sleepily into the living room. Sam is sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal, Hallmark channel on with the volume down low. He can’t look up when Higgs says good morning. In fact, his face gets so hot he hopes Higgs doesn’t glance in his direction.

“Thank goodness!” Higgs declares, opening the fridge. “Want some eggs, Sam?”

The question shouldn’t feel like an accusation, but it does. “No.” Sam’s rebuttal is perhaps a bit harsh, as he more spits the word than says it.

“Yeesh, someone’s Mr. Cranky today. Didn’t have your coffee yet?”

“Tired.”

Higgs stretches, long and loud. He says, “Really? I slept great. Best I’ve slept in years, probably.”

_Me too_ , Sam thinks. But he can’t admit it. Not out loud. Instead, he shrugs and shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“Well, chin up, Princess! Power’s back on, and even though it’s cold as shit at least we’ve got heat working.”

There’s rummaging in the kitchen for a few minutes, and thankfully a bit of silence as Higgs prepares his own breakfast. Unfortunately, he also decides to seat himself next to Sam. Closer than he’s sat previously. Sam doesn’t know which is worse: Higgs’s proximity, or the fact that part of him wants to scoot a little closer, to feel that cozy, warm feeling again. He knows better than to lean in to the feeling, but he can’t shut it down, can’t get it off his mind as Higgs happily scoops eggs. Lavender isn’t Sam’s favorite smell, not even remotely, but somehow on Higgs it’s not offensive. And the flowery scent drifting back into his senses from the man seated beside him on the couch brings him back to the scandalous snuggle.

When Higgs gestures toward the TV, nudging him in the arm, Sam can’t take it.

“You good?” Higgs calls as Sam hastily stands from the couch.

Sam dumps the remainder of his cereal down the garbage disposal and locks himself again in the office without a word. There he stays, dead quiet, for the remainder of the day.

Sam wakes to pounding on the office door. He sits up and rubs his eyes. He’s not sure when he passed out, but it’s… He glances at his watch. It’s somehow late Saturday afternoon?

“Are you ready, or nah?” Higgs shouts through the door.

Sam groans. “Ready for what?” He was so flustered the day before, he couldn’t sleep for most of the night. Surely he’s only slept a few hours – and by some miracle, not gone stir-crazy locked in that tiny room.

“The neighbors’ party!”

“Shit.” Sam stands and opens the door.

Higgs takes a step back, gives Sam a once-over, and laughs. “I guess not. You better get cleaned up; I’m not taking you anywhere like this.”

“Just go without me, I’ll catch up.”

“No way!” Higgs crosses his arms. “What kind of couple shows up to their first neighborhood party _separately?_ That’s lunacy. Nobody will buy that.”

Sam stretches, willing the sleepiness from his bones. He would very much like Higgs to work up some excuse why Sam couldn’t make it, or why Sam is coming much later, while he catches a few more winks. But Higgs doesn’t look like he’s about to give in.

“Fine.” Sam leans against the doorway…and then he catches a whiff of his underarms. He quickly snaps them to his sides. “Let me get a shower.”

“Hurry up!”

Sam grumbles as he gathers a fresh set of clothes and ambles to the restroom. He’s _exhausted_. Surely he could sleep another 10 hours.

All Friday and most of the night, he sat awake, trying to forget the feeling of Higgs’s arms around him, the warmth of the embrace. He wanted to put from his mind just how magnificent that contact felt, how he was able to touch someone without breaking out in welts, or his muscles tightening to the point of pain. It’s been years since he’s had that. Knowing it’s right there, but with a person he definitely doesn’t want it from, leaves an ache in his chest. It makes his jaw hurt, his eyes sting. It’s…it’s…ridiculous.

Even as he prepares to shower, he’s sure he can smell him. Sam rubs his eyes again and runs his fingers through his hair. He turns on the hot water and lets it warm up as he undresses. He watches his reflection in the mirror for a moment; heavy, dark bags sit under his eyes. His hair is a wreck. He could do with a shave, too, which he does while waiting on some hot water.

Sam breathes steam as he opens the shower curtain. It’s calming, definitely rich in pleasant florals, and Sam steps into the hot stream. One foot in. Then the other.

Something is off. With tired clumsiness, Sam leans against the wall to dip his head beneath the shower head.

But he has no traction on the oil-slick tub, and both feet slip backward.

With a _bang_ , Sam falls, striking several parts of the shower with several parts of his body as he goes down. He may have shouted somewhere in the mix, but lying on the shower floor in a stunned daze, he’s not quite sure.

It takes a moment for pain to set in. And it sets in many places. “Fuck…fuck me,” he grumbles.

Pounding on the bathroom door. “Sammy? Are you okay?”

“Goddammit Higgs!” Sam shouts. “You left that bath bomb shit in here again, and I almost fuckin’ died!”

“Shit!” Higgs’s muffled voice actually sounds distantly repentant. “Shit, I’m sorry Sam. You alright?”

Sam groans. “I’m fine.” He thinks so, anyway. His jaw stings, and he lifts a finger to touch the afflicted spot; a little blood comes away. He must have hit the spigot. His left wrist hurts, and a huge red welt rises from his left shoulder down his chest. His legs are surely beat up too, but those don’t hurt yet. Hot water continues to drizzle on him from above as Sam slowly rotates his wrist. He’s fairly certain it’s not sprained, but he at least twisted it.

“Gonna fucking kill you,” he mumbles quietly. Thankfully, the remainder of his shower is without incident. His body aches like the day he slipped on icy apartment building stairs carrying a 60lb parcel and sacrificed his back to save the package. He gingerly dries off, and even now he can see bruises forming on his legs and chest. His face isn’t bleeding much, but it’s bloody, and a big purple spot blooms around the cut. Just when his nose was starting to look normal again, too. He curses softly and finishes drying off to get dressed. He gingerly rotates his wrist again. It doesn’t hurt too much to move it, but it does hurt in general.

Sam opens the door; Higgs is seated in the hallway with a first-aid kit. He stands when he sees Sam, clutching the kit to his chest. He’s child-like for a split second.

The tongue-lashing Sam had prepared for him melts away. Higgs looks like he might cry when his eyes fall on the injury on his jawline.

“Fuck me running… Sam, I’m so sorry. I was so sleepy when I took my bath last night, I forgot.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Sam says, “I’ll live.”

“Let me patch you up,” Higgs says, popping open the kit.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Higgs gingerly extends a hand toward Sam’s face. Sam fights the urge to jerk away, letting Higgs’s thumb rest gently on his face. The warmth in his fingers is startling, bright eyes zeroed in as he gently dabs an ointment onto the cut. He can feel Higgs’s breath on his cheek, can smell that all he’s ingested is coffee. Surprisingly gentle, Higgs absently brushes his thumb across the coarse patch of hair on Sam’s chin. Sam feels suddenly weak. Higgs is so intent on the treatment, he doesn’t see the blush spread across Sam’s cheeks, hopefully doesn’t hear the surprised catch in Sam’s breath when he retracts, gently pressing an adhesive bandage over the cut.

“Thanks.” Sam hates how softly his voice comes out.

Higgs’s lips curl into that wolfish smile. “Glad you’re alright. Ready to go?”

“Guess so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I changed the maturity rating on this fic. That's for the next chapter/s. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading and commenting! It brings me great joy to know you all enjoy this story, and even greater joy that some of you have begun to make accurate predictions about future events. I hope you enjoy future chapters as much as you proclaim to have enjoyed those in the past, and enjoy some Holiday Cheer!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Christmas party. It doesn't exactly go wrong...it goes...unexpected.

As Sam and Higgs pass the front door, icy cold wind whips right through every layer of clothing on their bodies. The ground crunches and cracks beneath their feet, like they’re walking on broken glass. If not for the wind, it would be positively magical outside. Stars shine bright, unobscured by the dim yellow street lights. Every surface is coated in a blanket of snow, snow encased in a thick sheen of ice. It catches the moon and the stars, lighting the way.

It’s immediately obvious which house the _Soiree_ is at. It’s the most extravagantly-decorated house on the block, lawn littered with tall pyramids of light, Santa and his Reindeer on the roof, the jolly fat man waving at passersby, and cars parked in the driveway and lining the street outside the abode. Music emanates from the open door, and there’s a low hum of voices as they draw nearer. Hot air blasts the front yard and down the walkway, which has been well-salted and crunches like gravel beneath their boots as Sam and Higgs approach the front door.

An attractive young woman stands at the doorway. She’s wearing a green sweater, decorated with string lights that are actually illuminated, dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail.

“Hello!” she greets enthusiastically. She holds one arm out, looking for an embrace. In the other, she has a red solo cup that smells strongly of liquor. “I’m Lockne! You must be the new neighbors!”

Higgs goes in for the hug, introducing himself and Sam in turn. Sam’s not sure if he knows it, but the way Higgs stands in front of Lockne prevents her from reaching toward Sam for the same hug. He’s relieved; he’s had enough _touching_ for a long while.

The air in the house is thick and hot and dense with smells. Booze and cinnamon and burning wood and, distantly, cigar smoke. It’s almost dizzying.

Lockne gestures to a table in the living room. It’s draped with a bright red-and-green tablecloth, and atop it sit several platters of cookies, crackers, cheeses, and a large selection of alcohol.

“Please,” Lockne says, “make yourselves comfortable! I’m gonna hang out here for a few more minutes in case anyone else shows up. Maggie’s in the kitchen unloading the last of the gingerbread men, if you wanna snag a fresh one!”

Christmas music drifts through the air from a large speaker. Sam and Higgs head inside. Higgs hangs his coat on a hook by the door, and then he turns to Sam. “May I take your coat?” A smug grin adorns his lips.

Sam can’t help but smile a tiny smile. “Sure.” He unzips and pulls the lapels of his coat back, allowing Higgs to pull it off and hang it.

“How about that,” Higgs says softly. “Off to a great start at this whole _couple_ thing already.”

Sam’s eyes fall to his feet. He thinks if anyone had seen them at their house, Higgs tenderly dressing Sam’s wounds, they would have been much more fooled than seeing the simple gesture of taking a man’s coat. Still, he can’t help but smirk a little. Higgs is clearly having a great time, and he’s actually quite pleasant when sufficiently entertained.

“Let me get you a drink,” Higgs says. “Wine?” He stands on his toes to examine the array of beverages. “Something fruitier? Looks like they’ve got some eggnog, if that’s your thing.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Higgs shrugs. “Okay. I’m gonna get a drink – and then I’m gonna peep in on those cookies.”

Sam is loath to follow Higgs around like a lost puppy, so he plants himself on a wall and stands back as people mull around and chat softly. A young couple is seated on a small red couch beneath a window on the back wall. They talk softly, laughing and sipping from red cups. A woman no older than 20 stands not too far away, examining a twisted metal sculpture rising from the floor and making verbal observations to an elderly woman who looks very much like her. Likely a grandparent.

There are so many faces of so many ages and colors, all thoroughly enjoying the serene festivities with refreshments of some kind or another.

Higgs suddenly reappears. In one hand is a cup and half a thin, brown cookie. The other hand he extends to Sam. “You gotta come meet the hostess, come on!”

When Sam takes too long to respond, Higgs rolls his eyes and reaches for Sam’s hand, gripping it and pulling him away from the wall. Sam lets him drag him across the room and through an archway to the kitchen.

Plating a tray of steaming-hot cookies is a woman who looks _identical_ to the one at the front door. Her sweater has a row of tassels at the bottom, all holding jingle bells that tinkle softly as she moves. Unlike Lockne, she wears a large pair of frameless glasses. They’re fogged from the heat.

She looks up, and a broad smile stretches across her face. “Well, I guess you’re Sam. I’m Maggie, but everyone calls me Mama.” She wipes her hands on her apron and picks up the platter.

Higgs doesn’t let go of Sam’s hand as they stand in the kitchen. It’s all Sam can focus on, long thin fingers squeezed around his own broad palm as Mama extends pleasantries and invitations for them to request anything they might desire. Her voice drones into the background, mixing with Christmas tunes as all of Sam’s focus centers on the man idly holding his hand.

When Mama extends the tray toward Sam, he realizes she’s making an offer. The fog lifts. He accepts a cookie and says, “Thanks.”

“Anything you need,” she says. She exits the kitchen.

Sam finally thinks to pull his hand away. Now that they’re alone, he takes a step away from Higgs, who frowns.

“You okay?”

Sam scrubs both hands over his face. “There’s just…a lot going on here.” He’s overwhelmed by a little more than just the party. Why did he pull away so fast? Even with all his internal reasoning, Sam _knows_ he didn’t hate standing there, hand-in-hand with Higgs. It was actually…kinda nice.

Higgs holds his cup out. “Just a little. Come on, it’ll loosen you up.”

With a sigh, Sam says, “Fine.” He accepts the cup and takes a sip, then gags and shudders. “The hell is in this?”

Higgs laughs. “It’s just whiskey!” He looks into the cup, closing one eye as he examines the brown liquid. “Cheap, oaky whiskey, I think.”

“Disgusting!”

“I’m sorry.” Higgs doesn’t sound sorry at all. He snickers. “Sure you don’t want a glass of wine?”

Sam recalls the dinner with their neighbors, and how much he was able to relax and actually enjoy himself with a little alcohol in his system. “Fine.”

“Red or white?”

Sam shrugs. “You pick, I guess?”

“Hmm. I’m thinking something sweet, for sweet Sam.”

There it is, that weird, obnoxious, mindless affection Higgs spews all over everyone. It’s different than the Higgs who ran screaming from spiders, who sat with him by the fire and read quietly, and it’s certainly different from the Higgs who tended his wounds with the gentility of someone handling a precious, delicate thing. This Higgs is closed off, aggressive, loud. Sam sees it now, how the suave, easy demeanor is a mask. He can’t show that vulnerable underbelly at the party.

As Higgs walks off in search of wine, Sam feels warmth bloom in his chest. Maybe it’s from the whiskey, but it’s certainly not embarrassment. Something akin to fondness, he thinks, and he exhales harshly. Yeah, he thinks, he could be fond of Higgs. Fuck, maybe that’s why he yanked his hand away like Higgs was made of hot coals. This is neither the time nor place – nor situation! – to be catching… Sam gags … feelings for _that guy_. The ex-cop. The guy who literally got him into this fucked-up situation in the first place.

In the empty kitchen, to the muffled hum of Christmas music, Sam laughs to himself.

As the evening progresses, Sam finds a quiet corner in the living room in a stiff armchair. Higgs brings him a glass of white wine; it really is sweet, and smooth, and it tastes pretty good. He sips it slowly, watching people mill about and dance drunkenly to the terrible music. The same 10 songs loop over and over. Christmas music is bad enough, but the same tunes on repeat are downright annoying. Though, they grow less so as a hefty buzz settles over Sam.

Higgs has no trouble mingling, making small talk and laughing in turn with every attendant. Even if it is a mask, Sam wishes he could do it, could pretend to fit in and be at ease in his skin. Though he knows it’s all fake, it’s almost good enough to fool him. Still. Sam’s envious of that. A few of the neighbors stop to say hello and introduce themselves to him, but none engage him too long, moving on when they realize just how poor a conversationalist Sam really is. He downs the remainder of his drink and sets the cup on the side table. It’s too hot in the sisters’ house for comfort in what he’s wearing, but he’s still beginning to relax.

That is, until Higgs strides toward him with a look of _purpose_ on his face.

_Oh no,_ Sam thinks.

Higgs extends a hand. His cheeks are rosy with drink, but he doesn’t sway, so he can’t be terribly drunk. “Care to dance?”

Sam looks incredulously at the hand, arches an eyebrow, and looks up at the man’s face. “You’re kidding.”

Higgs whines like a child. “Sa- _am_! Just one dance. C’mon.”

“I can’t dance.”

“You don’t have to know how! I’ll lead.”

Sam throws his head back. Maybe he’s crazy. Maybe he’s drunk. Maybe a little of both. Whatever the explanation, he concedes, taking Higgs’s hand. Higgs yanks him out of the chair as _Jingle Bell Rock_ starts for the fourth time over the speakers. He guides Sam’s hand to his shoulder and places his own on Sam’s back. He doesn’t pull him close…exactly…but it _feels_ close. Higgs smiles broadly, and he does exactly as promised; he leads, pulling Sam along to the rhythm of the music and shimmying them alongside other folks who have taken to dancing. Most of them are markedly drunk, giggling and stumbling. The atmosphere really is light and joyful. _Merry and bright._ Sam doesn’t hate Higgs’s hand on his back. Doesn’t hate seeing the smile lines around his eyes, though the way he looks down at him is difficult to reciprocate. Dammit, he wishes people weren’t watching. Every instinct tells him to pull away, to run back to that little office with the little mattress and hide himself, nose buried in a book. This feels wrong, how close Higgs’s face is to his, how he grins and looks straight into Sam’s soul.

_I shouldn’t be feeling like this._

At the song’s bridge, Higgs guides Sam into a twirl. It feels so ridiculous, Sam laughs – and then flinches as Higgs tweaks his wrist, and the pain from his fall sears up his arm. He yelps and withdraws abruptly. One or two people glance their way, but thankfully most are too invested in what they’re doing to really notice. The eyes that do fall on him bore through, and suddenly that glass of wine isn’t enough to keep him from wanting to collapse in on himself. That _book in private_ is even more appealing now.

Higgs steps toward him and softly says, “What happened?”

“The shower,” Sam says.

Higgs’s blush spreads. “You’re hurt somewhere else? Let me see.”

“It’s fine.” Sam pulls the appendage defensively against his body and takes a step back. He can’t let Higgs touch him again, can’t…feel that way again. It’s not right.

For a moment, Higgs looks crestfallen. He quickly perks up though, and he says, “Sit down. I’ll get you another drink.”

Sam doesn’t have to be told twice. He resumes his seat, safe in the corner in his little arm chair, and wordlessly accepts the cup Higgs brings him. He takes two big gulps, sighing as some of the pain retreats.

Higgs hovers over him, brow furrowed. “Can I just look at it for a second?”

“I said I’m fine,” Sam snaps.

Higgs raises both hands. “Okay. Whatever.” He turns on his heel and stomps off to pick at the remainder of the gingerbread cookies.

There’s an uproar when more neighbors arrive. Samantha strolls in, arms filled with several bottles. A canvas grocery bag dangles from her arm, from which she produces several huge containers of chopped fruit and a flat of Gatorade.

“Hydrate, bitches!” Samantha shouts over the buzz. Laughter erupts, and several partygoers line up for their electrolytes, Higgs among them. He greets and hugs her, gratefully accepting a bright blue bottle and cracking it open to guzzle its contents. Samantha and him step away from the table, sharing giddy conversation as Taylor emerges to hand Samantha a drink.

She then heads toward Sam, cup in her own hand, offering a greeting and a smile.

“Hey,” is all Sam says. His eyes are still glued on Higgs.

Taylor leans against the wall beside his chair, crossing her arms and ankles. “How you doing, Sam?”

“Surviving.”

Taylor laughs. “I hate Christmas. But I love my neighbors, so Sam and I – er, Samantha and I – we arrive late, have a few drinks, make sure everyone’s had a little water, then bounce. You know all Mama and Lockne offered were cookies and lil smokies?”

Sam chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

She takes a sip of her beverage. Sam finally looks her way, and she’s looking at him with a peculiarly intense inquisitive stare.

Sam shrinks in on himself. “What?!”

She draws a finger along her jaw, eyes on his bandage.

Sam snorts. “Fell.”

“Uh huh.” Taylor nods. Her gaze drifts over to Higgs a moment, then back to Sam. “Your arm?”

“Same accident.”

Taylor nods. She turns her body toward him, lowering her voice. “You know, if you ever need to get out of the house awhile, you’re welcome at our place. Total safe space.”

Sam frowns. “Thanks, I guess?”

“I mean it. You know, if you need to avoid another…accident.” Her eyes flicker again to the bandage.

It takes a bit longer than it might normally, due to the fuzzy wine buzz, but when Sam realizes what she’s implying he barks a laugh.

Taylor smiles and raises a hand in surrender. “Just saying, in case you need it.”

“Higgs uses these bath bombs,” Sam says. “Lavender. Real flowery.” He chuckles. “They’re alright I guess, but they leave a nasty film in the tub. I kept telling him to clean it after he uses them, but he says he forgot. I dunno if I buy that, I think he was bein’ lazy. Anyway, I got in a big fat hurry today and slipped on the leftovers.”

Taylor nods slowly. “Alright, it’s cool.”

Sam shakes his head, amused. “Thanks. Really, I appreciate it. I’m good. Really.” He downs the last of his wine. “He doesn’t hit me.”

Taylor doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she smiles and nods anyway.

He probably shouldn’t, but he stands and says, “I’m gonna get another drink.”

“And some water!” Taylor calls after him.

Sam waves a dismissive hand in her direction, beelining for the refreshment tables, one of which is now covered in mostly-empty bottles. He scans through them, looking for a sweet white wine – or any wine, really. His vision isn’t totally still, but the wine bottles appear to have been depleted. He wonders if there’s more in the kitchen. He’s not much inclined to switch to liquor, even if he does sway a little in his search and it would probably taste better now than it did an hour ago.

He turns to head toward the kitchen and runs headlong into Higgs, who looks like he was about to tap Sam on the shoulder.

Sam looks him over, contemplating whether to say anything (like _I’m sorry for snapping at you when you were literally just trying to look out for me_ ), decides to push past him, and continues on his quest.

In the kitchen doorway there’s a step stool, and in the kitchen a young woman with short, blonde hair rummages through a drawer. She’s muttering to herself. Sam pauses in the entry, uncertain whether he should turn around and leave the woman in peace or continue on. She doesn’t seem much like she’ll notice him. In one hand, she holds a small, green sprig, adorned with white berries. Sam recognizes it as mistletoe.

“…a tack, or tape, or _something_ ,” the woman is saying. She must be looking for something to hang it with.

From behind him comes Higgs’s voice, sounding mildly concerned. “Sam, you should—”

—and then Lockne’s voice exclaims, excitedly, “Gill, you got one!”

The blonde woman raises her head, and her lips turn up into a smile. “Hah! I didn’t even get the second one up yet!” Her gaze flicks between Sam and the door frame.

With dawning dread, Sam slowly looks up; in the doorway where he’s standing, hanging from the wooden frame, mistletoe. He defensively holds up his empty cup. “I was just lookin’ for…” he turns to make a dash for it but notes several sets of eyes on him – including Higgs, who looks as frozen as he feels.

Mama clasps her hands together, and Lockne says, “Go on Higgs! Give your man some sugar.”

“If you don’t, I will,” Gill says. There’s no real threat in her voice, but Sam’s blood runs cold. He and Higgs stare at each other.

Higgs finally speaks. He says, “You know, we’re not much into PDA…”

“ _Booooooo!_ ” calls the old woman. Samantha and Taylor stand near the refreshments table, Samantha whispering something while her eyes stay trained on Sam.

Sam can’t move. Higgs can. And he does, shaking away some of the stiffness in his shoulders to replace it with that careless swagger he’s mastered. Sam feels the blood drain from his face as Higgs draws closer. All eyes fall on them, drunken cheers and _whoo_ s rising up around the room.

He’s gonna do it. Higgs is determined not to blow their cover, and really it’s good he’s able to push through the awkwardness because Sam can’t, he can’t even fathom breaking out of his paralysis to maintain the façade.

Higgs leans over him. Sam’s heart leaps to his throat, eyes wide, fingers cold, empty cup forgotten. His lips tingle, in…what? Terror? Anticipation? Blood so loud in his ears, it drowns out the party. Drowns out everything except Higgs looming over him, drawing closer, closer.

Their faces are inches apart. He’s gonna do it. Higgs is going to kiss him under the mistletoe, and Sam is going to let him because he has to in order to maintain their cover. _That’s the only reason. So the neighbors will buy it._

…and then Higgs’s lips land on his unmarred cheek with a gentle sound. The cheek kiss seems to appease the onlookers, which makes Sam feel even more nuts when he does what he does next.

He’s either way drunker than he thought or out of his goddamn mind, because his hands find the front of Higgs’s shirt, Sam turns his head, and he pulls until Higgs’s lips meet his own.

Which he immediately identifies as a _huge mistake_.

Higgs smells of whiskey and lavender, and his lips part in surprise, and Sam can _taste_ the booze and the cookies, spices and sweetness, and he’s suddenly hungry for it, raising his other hand to wrap around the back of Higgs’s head and pull him into a deeper kiss. And he tastes _amazing_.

More _whoo_ s and exuberant cheers rise around them at the party, and Sam realizes with shock and horror what he’s just done. But it’s a good thing, right? He sold the moment, sold them as a couple. Nobody could doubt it after that.

Right?

When they part, Higgs’s eyes are wide, and the blush on his face is definitely from more than just the alcohol. Sam swallows dryly, unable to break eye contact. His tongue swipes over his lip, tasting remnants of oak and cinnamon. His heart hammers, and he’s dizzy and embarrassed but he doesn’t regret it, not even a little. But just because he knows he sold it. It has nothing to do with the heat the blossoms inside of him, nothing _at all_ to do with remembering the feeling of Higgs’s hand in his, of his fingers on his face…

That’s why he doesn’t regret it. Of course. Even as he gasps for breath, even as he’s sure he’ll melt into a puddle and seep through the floorboards. In fact, he revels in the surprised stare Higgs gives him, the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, like he’s just as breathless as Sam. It feels good to be on the other end of the transaction, to make Higgs flushed and speechless for once.

“I…I think it’s time to head home,” Higgs says, even as the party resumes around them.

“Okay,” Sam agrees.

As they kick off wet boots and shuck their jackets, safe and alone in their house, Sam timidly says, “I’m sorry.”

Higgs hangs his coat and turns toward Sam. “You’re sorry?!”

Sam leans against the living room wall and tilts his head back to rest, closing his eyes. He thinks if he can’t see him, the humiliation will fade. Because that’s what that burning sensation in his chest is, he’s only embarrassed about being carried away. That’s all. “I just got kinda caught in the moment. And I think I’m drunk.” He smirks. “You should have seen your face.”

“My face?” Higgs laughs. “You should have seen your face. You should see your face right now.”

Sam opens his eyes and realizes Higgs is standing over him. His stomach does a somersault. Higgs braces one hand against the wall. It doesn’t box him in, but it does allow Higgs to lean so very, very close. Sam knows he could duck away. Thinks he probably should. He can still just walk off, change into pajamas, and hide in that study. That would be the smart thing to do. Instead, his stupid heart flutters, and his stupid eyes won’t leave Higgs and his stupid face. And while Sam is busy telling himself to move, to slide along the wall and out from under Higgs’s intense blue stare, suddenly long fingers are in his hair, and warm lips are against his, cold nose pressed to his cheek. Sam gasps and goes stiff as a board…before he thinks to reciprocate, to let himself melt into the warm embrace, let Higgs pull him against his body. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt like this, heart a hummingbird in the cage of his chest, parting his lips and inviting more, deeper, _closer_.

Higgs makes a soft sound against him, and it makes Sam shiver, trying to pull the tall figure closer by handfuls of fabric. He feels amazing everywhere they touch. He doesn’t _want_ it to feel amazing. He wants to shove him away, scold him for overstepping, for daring to touch him. Instead, he whimpers when Higgs works a hand under his shirt, huge hand flat against Sam’s back, fingers cold but gesture warm, burning. Sam wants to feel more of him, more skin against his. The fingers in his hair tighten. Higgs breaks away from his lips to trail wet, hot kisses down his neck. When he feels Higgs’s tongue as his pulse, Sam’s breath catches, and warmth starts to pool inside of him, waking parts of him that have been asleep for years.

When Higgs pushes against him, Sam can feel he’s not alone, a hard bulge in Higgs’s pants pressing into his belly. The contact, Higgs’s arousal, it makes Sam suddenly hard too. He gasps, fists tightening in Higgs’s shirt. Their lips meet again, and Sam parts them, inviting Higgs’s tongue into his mouth. He laps greedily at Sam, pulling him close, and Sam fumbles between them, unbuckling Higgs’s belt and struggling at his jeans button pressed against his torso.

Higgs pulls away a tiny bit. “Wait,” he says, panting. His lips are swollen and pink, pupils blown huge in the dim light. “Wait.”

Sam halts, one finger hooked through the waistband of Higgs’s jeans. He can’t _seriously_ want to stop now. Not after the fucking flirting and dancing and hand-holding and stealing Sam’s breath away all evening.

Higgs gently caresses Sam where his hand rests beneath his shirt. “You’re drunk,” he says, softly.

“So?” Sam scoffs. “So are you.” He reaches down, pressing his palm against Higgs’s hardness.

Higgs gasps and scrunches his eyes shut, releasing Sam’s hair to grab at his wrist and pull it away. “I know,” he says. “I know. We’re drunk.”

Sam’s breath comes in short puffs. “And?” He cannot be serious. Not now. Not when Sam has decided to let him have his way.

“And we’re drunk. And this is…” He pulls Sam’s wayward hand up to his chest. Sam can feel his heart, jackhammering just as fast as his own. “This is not something we do drunk.”

He’s right. Sam knows he’s right. Even as blood rushes to his groin, making him ache and _want_ , he can’t argue.

“Okay,” Sam says. “Alright.” He relaxes his hand against Higgs’s chest.

Higgs leans down and captures another kiss, this one slow and soft, unhurried. He pulls away and groans. “Fuck, Sam…” he laughs. “You’re really fucking hot.”

Sam’s face heats up, eyes dropping to his hand against Higgs’s sweater. Shame blossoms inside of him. He knew better. It’s ridiculous to think the flirting was anything more than just that – a man who likes to flirt, flirting for fun in front of people they’re trying to fool.

Higgs withdraws his hand from beneath Sam’s shirt. “Hey. Let’s order a pizza.”

With a shaky breath, Sam says, “Yeah. That sounds good.” It’s not what he wants _at all_. Now that he’s broken the dam, the flood of feelings he’s developed for Higgs spills out, tingling in his fingers and toes and chest. It _hurts_.

“Okay.” Higgs takes a deep breath and buckles his belt again. He runs both fingers through his hair, eyes sweeping over Sam again. They land on Sam’s crotch, and Sam realizes his erection is visible and timidly pulls his shirt down, sitting hastily on the couch.

Higgs shakes his head. “Can’t do it drunk,” he repeats. It almost sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than Sam. Almost.

“Pete? Hey, put me through to Gutierrez. … What do you mean he’s not there? … Nah, we just want a pizza. We didn’t get to eat dinner at this event and … ugh, you know we’re not supposed to do that. … Okay, fine. But don’t tell Gutierrez. He’ll kick my ass.” Higgs pulls the mouthpiece of the phone down. “Pepperoni ok?”

Sam nods.

“Just a large pepperoni. … No, I don’t care where you get it from. … That’s fine.” He rattles off an address then hangs up the phone. “Should be here soon.”

“Thanks.” Sam’s not really hungry, but he hopes eating a little will help sober him up. And distract him from the stupid, unrequited temptation to tear through all of Higgs’s clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm staying with family right now because my sister is expecting a baby any day! I'm still writing, and my goal is to have this sucker finished by the end of the year, but...we'll see.  
> On a story note: poor Sam. It's okay. But unfortunately it's going to get worse before it gets better :(
> 
> (*insert evil author cackle*)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who is still reading this! I hope you're still enjoying it even a FRACTION as much as I've enjoyed writing it thus far. Happy Holidays, and see you soon!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is about to ask for a new partner. He's not gonna get a chance.

Despite soft sweats, the fancy floor cot, and his blanket draped over the heater vent, Sam can’t get comfortable or warm. He lies in bed, blanket billowed around him, staring at the dark ceiling. It was just past 3AM last he checked, and he knows he should be asleep. He’s exhausted. His body begs him to relax, to untense and close his eyes. But he can’t stop thinking about kissing Higgs.

Higgs has soft lips. He tastes of whiskey and spice. His hands are warm. Even hours later, Sam’s sweatshirt still carries the distant aroma of lavender from being pressed against his body. His body…

Sam’s cheeks flush.

_This is fucked up_ , he thinks. Higgs is not his lover. Hell, he’s not even really his _friend_. He’s a virtual stranger who dragged him into a life of hiding from extremely dangerous criminals. People who would see him dead…or worse. So _why_ does he keep envisioning himself tangled, naked, in the strange man’s arms? And why does that vision send heat to his face and belly?

The air kicks off, and the blanket falls limp, draping itself neatly over Sam.

_Why the fuck did I kiss him?_

Higgs was content to play his part, to let Sam go on not feeling like there’s a weight in the depths of his chest dragging him to hell. Higgs was just going to kiss him on the cheek, get drunk, and enjoy mingling. Enjoy wearing his mask and convincing everyone he was fine. But no, Sam had to go and fuck it all up by tasting that _delicious_ kiss.

And Christ Himself descend from the heavens and strike him dead if he didn’t want more.

The pizza Higgs had delivered was delicious as anything greasy and rich is when one is drunk, but the greater advantage it had was distracting them from what just happened. From the fact that Higgs had Sam practically pinned against the wall, touching him, holding him, the weight of his body firm against Sam’s…

…oh how easily he could hold him there, find all the ways to make Sam’s skin burn and tingle and crave more…

Sam heaves a sigh and turns to his side, staring at the crack of the office door. Higgs is just one room over. It’s probably warmer in bed with him. Softer. _Closer_. Higgs would invite him into it with open arms and press their bodies together. He would wrap those arms around his chest and hold him until they fell asleep.

Sam’s soul aches. “I’m sorry, Lucy,” he whispers into the night. He hasn’t thought about her in years, but now that he’s alone, lying in bed with sexual fantasies about someone else, her memory washes up all the old guilt, every raw feeling he’s ever had. He pulls he blanket closer, willing traumatic memories not to mingle with fresh, new desires. He closes his eyes tightly, and they burn. The aching in his soul rises to his throat. A hot tear fights it way from behind scrunched lids, scorching his cheek as it runs down, and a shuddering, quiet sob escapes his lips. He covers his face with both hands, trying not to cry. The effort is useless. His chest contracts in silent hiccups, all the _what-if_ s and _why-didn’t-I_ s he had so deeply locked away pushing to the surface in a cascade of sorrow and guilt and loneliness.

Higgs made breakfast. Sam’s head pounds as he opens the study door, finally coaxed out by hunger and the smell of bacon cooking. His ears ring quietly – probably from the headache – and he wills himself to step into the hallway. He quietly closes the door behind him. It takes all his strength to put one socked foot before the other, pattering down the hallway.

“Finally up?” Higgs calls from the kitchen. Sizzling sounds emanate from where Higgs is surely artfully whipping together some ridiculous morning meal.

Sam grunts disapproval at the chipper tone.

Higgs emerges, dressed in plaid pajama pants too short to cover his ankles. They’re pulled…low. The tops of his hip bones are visible, and Sam can only think, _It’s too early for this shit._ Before crawling out from under the covers that morning, Sam finally figured out what he had to do. It’s not appropriate for him to stand here, pining over the man who is supposed to be in witness protection with him. Or whatever fucked-up punishment from a past life this is. _Punishment for my past self, even._

“I made omelets and bacon, and there’s some fresh orange juice in the fridge! Well, fresh from the grocery store shelf.” He retreats to the stove, and Sam rounds the partition to take a cup from the cabinet, wordlessly pouring himself a glass of juice and sitting at the table.

“Little hungover?” Higgs asks.

Sam grunts again.

“Thought you might be. I made all my favorite hangover cures, and that juice will do wonders for your head, trust me.”

Reluctantly, Sam sips. He knows he’ll feel better when he eats, but oh how his stomach protests at the thought of actually trying to ingest anything.

“First course, toast,” Higgs announces. The clatter of a plate on the table before him startles Sam. On it sits a pair of perfectly-golden bread slices. Sam looks up at Higgs with a cocked eyebrow.

Higgs raises his eyes from the plate to look at him. His expression darkens. “Whoa,” he says. “That bad?”

“Didn’t sleep well.”

Higgs studies Sam far too closely for comfort. He quickly turns to shut off the stove top and hurriedly takes a seat at the table. He inhales deeply, exhales slowly. “Look, Sam…”

“We don’t have’ta talk about it.”

Higgs closes his mouth and nods. He chuckles. “Good, because I’m actually shit at talking about that stuff.”

Merely as a distraction, Sam picks up a piece of toast and nibbles at it. He keeps his eyes trained on the plate, determined not to look over at the toned chest less than three feet from him. It wouldn’t do to cause any more problems. Either for himself or Higgs.

“So anyway, eggs or bacon first?”

“Uh, bacon,” Sam says. His gaze follows Higgs back to the kitchen. Higgs grabs a pair of tongs from the counter and tends to the already-sizzling bacon, replacing it on the flame.

“Crispy or chewy?”

Sam ponders, taking a moment to examine the toast on his plate. “Crispy,” he decides.

“Good,” Higgs says, “because at this point I’m afraid _chewy_ was not an option. Little distracted.” He pulls the charred meat from the skillet, placing it on a plate protected by paper towels.

“Eggs?”

“However is fine.”

“Scrambled?”

“Sure.” Sam remains silent after the affirmation. Higgs hums and mutters to himself as he retrieves ingredients and continues breakfast prep. Despite his efforts to counter, Sam can’t help but watch the tall, slender man go about his morning. It’s eerily domestic and comfortable…which is why Sam knows what he has to do. Taking advantage of Higgs in this situation feels wrong. Even if it’s entirely his fault he’s even _in_ the situation to begin with.

With chipper pleasantness that only Higgs can conjure with a morning hangover, he serves Sam and then himself, plopping down at the table with a satisfied sigh once the meal is prepared.

Sam hasn’t made much progress on the toast past his first few tentative bites, and he’s not feeling particularly optimistic about the other food he’s been presented. Nevertheless, he picks up a stiff piece of bacon and wills himself to take a slow bite. The flavors of char, smoke, and pork fill his mouth, and he chews thoughtfully for a long moment. _What would it be like to kiss someone who’s just eaten bacon?_

He abandons the thought and hastily sets the meat down, like it’s the bacon’s fault he can’t stop thinking about kissing. Higgs is oblivious, stuffing his face enthusiastically. He’s cleared half his plate before he notices that Sam’s barely touched his.

“Too burnt?” he asks.

Sam shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Trust me Sam, you’ll feel better after you eat it. I don’t like eating when I’m nauseated either, but—”

“I’m fine. Just not hungry.” That’s a goddamn lie.

Higgs frowns, still chewing. “Then what?”

Sam sighs. Time to get it over with. He absently picks at a cuticle, hands in his lap where, too, his gaze locks so he doesn’t have to see Higgs’s expressions. “’s’about last night.”

“Oh.” Higgs scoffs. “Please, Sam, I don’t expect you to—”

“I wanna request a reassignment.”

“…Oh.” For once, Higgs is lost for words.

“I can do that, right? I need, to, like, call the station and ask for your S.O. or something?”

“Uh…” Higgs clears his throat. Then he chuckles, that disingenuous, fake-laugh he does when he’s acting like nothing in the world can faze him. Sam knows it well enough by now, and it takes him a little by surprise. He honestly thought Higgs would be relieved, knowing Sam wouldn’t be around to expect anything of him – when it came to protection or…other things.

Following the forced laugh, Higgs says, “No sweat, I get it. Don’t worry about it; I’ll call Gutierrez this afternoon, get it all sorted.”

Sam nods. He still can’t bring himself to look up. He’s sure he’s doing the right thing, but his face burns. “Thanks.”

“No prob, Bob!” Higgs says. He claps his hands to his knees and stands, clearing his plate. “Probably be a little easier for you with someone else, anyway. You know, with your…phobia…thing.”

Sam grits his teeth and closes his eyes. In fact, being around Higgs is the first time in a long time he’s _not_ dreaded physical contact. First time he’s actually kinda looked forward to it. Come to want it, even. Which is exactly why he has to leave. How can Sam stay safe and smart when all his brain can do is tell him to put his lips on another man’s, anyway? How can Higgs do his job if Sam is indulging all of his silly little _sex games_ , or whatever he’s playing? And would it be leading him on if Sam suddenly regressed, suddenly realizes what he’s actually doing? Would Higgs even care?

“Y’know, Sammy, maybe I should apologize for—”

Before Higgs can finish his sentence, three loud, resounding _bangs_ echo from the front door. Sam does look up then, and Higgs is staring back with matched confusion.

“Expecting someone?” Higgs teases. It’s not the same knock their neighbors used any of the times they came to visit. They knocked softly, _shave and a haircut_. These knocks are purposeful, demanding.

Sam shakes his head. He’s the last person who would expect any company.

“Huh.” Higgs sets the plate he was washing on the counter and walks toward the door. Sam can’t help himself then. One last visual indulgence before never seeing him again, he supposes; he watches Higgs’s muscular, pale back as the man reaches for the deadbolt, glancing through the peephole. He turns to Sam with a bewildered expression, then cracks open the door.

Sam can’t see the visitor, but he does hear a man’s voice say, “Higgs Monaghan?”

“Who’s asking?!”

“And Sam Porter Bridges?”

“I said _who the hell is asking_?” Higgs’s grip on the doorknob tightens, his body bracing as though ready to slam the door. “You from the station or some kind of stalker?”

His defensive stance is, apparently, for naught, as the door bursts open and an absolute _beast_ of a man in black jeans and a tight, knit sweater practically tramples over Higgs.

“Sam, gun!” Higgs calls, grunting as another giant stranger lands atop him.

Beast is beelining for Sam – who is finally beginning to realize what’s happening. _Shit, they’re here for us. We’re gonna fucking die._ Not if he gets to that gun first. The man may be looming, but Sam is small, fast, and agile. He hastily stands, his chair tipping behind him and clattering to the ground, and shoves the table toward the intruder. Without looking to see how well his stupid ploy worked, he darts into the kitchen, climbs the counter, and leaps the partition to make his way into the hall and toward the bedroom. He slams the bedroom door and locks it behind him, blood rushing in his ears.

Gun…gun…shit, Higgs showed him where it was when they were drunk. He said _Just in case I can’t get to it_. The closet! Heart hammering, Sam practically teleports to the closet door and swings it open. It’s in a small lock box on the top shelf. He stands on his toes and manages to pull it down.

It’s locked. _Shit shit shit shit shit_. Higgs showed in the combination. 7641? Nope, that doesn’t work. Was it his birthday? _Fuck, what’s Higgs’s birthday?!_ 6741? _Dumbass, he’s not a fucking dinosaur_.

There’s a loud _bang_ and the sound of cracking wood. Sounds like the assailant is trying to break the door down. Sounds like he is succeeding.

“Fuck, Sam, think!” he scolds himself, growling as he frantically spins the dials in an attempt to remember the right fucking numbers.

There’s another _bang_ and another _crack_ , and Sam’s sweaty hands almost drop the case. He pulls it and himself into the closet – _like that’s gonna do much good_ – and continues fiddling with the lock.

From the living room, Higgs’s voice faintly shouts, “ _If you touch him, I swear to god I’ll fucking kill you!”_

“Shit,” Sam seethes.

The next sound he hears is surely wood splintering and the door crashing down. But the fates must be favoring him, because at that exact moment he hears a _click_ and the lock pops. He opens the case – and his time he does drop it. The gun and magazine spill to the dark closet floor. Sam drops to his knees, frantically groping the carpet in search of the weapon. His hand lands on cold metal – the gun! But he can’t find the magazine. Shit. He can’t find the magazine.

The closet door flies open, and Beast is standing over him ominously.

Thinking fast, Sam clutches the firearm to his chest and manages to roll out of the confined space past the huge man. He raises his arm as high as he can and swings the butt of the pistol into the back of the stranger’s head.

Unfortunately, all _that_ does is piss him off. _Huh. That usually works in the movies._ Beast spins around with fury in his eyes and…suddenly, Sam can’t move, searing pain radiating from his ribs up his chest, down his arms, his legs, and he drops to the ground twitching and aching.

In Beast’s hand is a short, two-pronged prod. An arc of electricity buzzes between the prongs.

Wheezing, Sam manages, “You fuckin’…’lectrocute me?!”

The man grins as he jabs the prod into Sam’s thigh, sending another jolt of pain searing along every nerve. It even feels like his brain is frying. The next moment, a huge, meaty fist fills his vision. It’s the last thing he remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sibling actually beta read this chapter, and they pointed out that Sam and Higgs are using their real names in witness protection. I ACKNOWLEDGE THIS AND HAVE CHOSEN TO IGNORE IT. This has been a PSA.
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking with this story! I have an ending planned in about 3 additional chapters. And yes, one of them will be smut, I promise.
> 
> I have a new nephew :) He's perfect.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW for those of you who have been reading and may not have seen updated tags: we learn a lot about Sam's past in this chapter, and there are graphic depictions of a PTSD-induced panic attack and its resulting flashbacks.

It’s dark. It’s cold. Sam’s hips and knees ache almost as viciously as his head. His neck is craned in an awkward position, and he can’t move his head.

“Higgs?” he whispers.

“Holy shit,” Higgs whispers back. He’s super close, and if Sam could move he might look for him. Not that it would do much good, since it’s pitch black in…whatever weird container they’re in. “You’re alive,” Higgs goes on in an excited, hushed tone. “Fucking hell, I thought you were dead. Whew. Well, that’s at least one upside.”

“What the fuck!” Sam snarls through clenched teeth. “What the fuck happened? Where are we?!”

“Car trunk.”

“Fuck.” Sam tries again for movement. “My hands are tied behind my back. Feels like one of those plastic zip tie things.”

“Me too. I’ve been trying to break it for hours. Think I’m close to snapping it.” Higgs laughs softly. “I really thought you were dead. You looked dead when they threw you in here. I knew I felt your breath.”

“I wish I was dead. Feels like the Kool-Aid man is trying to escape my skull.”

At that, Higgs laughs a little louder, and it’s in that moment Sam starts to get a feel for where he is; Higgs’s knees are touching the tops of his thighs (and his ankles are also zip tied, he realizes) and his chin must rest just above his head. Which puts Sam’s face practically against Higgs’s chest. His pulse quickens. His face is inches from that expanse of perfect, ivory skin.

_This is exactly why you were leaving, dumbass,_ Sam chides himself. Instead of that, he says, “I’m sorry. Couldn’t get the gun out.”

“It’s not your fault.” Higgs sighs. “I’m the idiot who answered the door. If we survive this, I’m going to pierce Englert’s eardrums with a rusty nail.”

“Think he was the mole?”

“You _think?_ ” Higgs scoffs. “I went to dinners with that guy. Met his wife and daughter. They have two cute, little dachshunds.” He gasps. “I gave him my Netflix password!”

Sam can’t help but laugh. There he lies, feeling guilty and ridiculous for having feelings – over which he has absolutely _zero_ control, because if he did he would certainly not be catching feelings for Higgs fucking Monaghan – and here this man is thinking about how the person he illegally shares a streaming service password with has betrayed him in a ruthless, lethal manner.

“Bastard,” Sam contributes. He didn’t like _Officer Pete_ from day one, but he attributed it to his stupid touch aversion thing and ignored warning signs. Of course he was the mole; he’d been trying to get Higgs to blurt the address from day one. All he had to do was wait for Higgs and Sam to get drunk and hungry and stupid, _And there go all the safety protocols._ He laughs again, harder, louder. And Higgs must have been on a similar train of thought, because he starts laughing too.

There they both are, tied up tightly and locked in a car trunk, laughing hysterically. They’ll probably be dead soon, but for the moment they’re just two idiots laughing at an equally idiotic situation. Sam curls in on himself, still laughing, and feels his forehead gently meet Higgs’s collarbone. He stops laughing then. Abruptly.

Higgs doesn’t seem to notice, still snickering…even moving in to the contact, as much as he can in their awkward positions. He sighs once he’s laughed out and rests his chin on Sam’s head.

“We’re gonna make it out of this,” he says.

It sounds so earnest that Sam almost believes him. Against the odds, against their obvious dire dilemma, he wants to believe Higgs. Not because Higgs has offered any viable solutions, not because he trusts Higgs’s policework (because there’s a slew of evidence to the contrary of Higgs’s competence on _that_ front), but simply because it’s _Higgs_ and Sam _wants_ to trust him. That terrifies him.

Rather than voice his doubts, Sam simply asks, “How?”

“I don’t know yet.” His voice is soft. He doesn’t exactly sound scared, but there’s fear behind the words. They both go quiet again. Sam can feel Higgs’s chest rise and fall as he breathes, even allows himself comfort from Higgs’s chin against his hair.

Sam’s actually on the verge of dozing off from pain and exhaustion, when Higgs says, “I’m so, so fucking sorry, Sam. I’m so fucking sorry I dragged you into this mess.”

He doesn’t want to say _it’s okay_ , because it’s definitely not fucking okay, but…Sam doesn’t regret the time they’ve spent together. It’s the closest he’s felt to anyone in ages. It’s given him hope that he can have friends again, maybe…even… “Higgs—”

“Don’t—Sam, just don’t. I know what I did. I know how I am. You don’t deserve…any of that. And it’s not just _this_ , our…current situation. I mean me. I mean how I…” he pauses, huffing in frustration. “God, I really do suck at this. Okay, let’s just say, I don’t blame you for wanting to be free of me. That’s all I’m saying. And it’s fine, I’m fine. I just—”

“It’s cool. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do. I know why you want to leave.”

Sam’s face heats up. Even though it’s dark as night, he’s sure Higgs can feel the blush spreading across his cheeks. Was it that obvious?

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Higgs continues. “That was over the line. And I’m sorry, okay?” The apology sounds defiant, with frustrated undertones.

But now Sam is more confused than before. “Huh? No—Higgs, that’s not—I didn’t want to leave because you…” Fuck, he can’t even say it out loud.

“Kissed you?”

Sam’s blush brightens. “That. That wasn’t it.”

“I just thought—because your touch thing, I…wait, so why did you want to leave?”

He can’t. He can’t admit it out loud, he can’t. Instead, he presses forward, seeking more of that stupid, annoying, _comforting_ contact.

“Wait…”

Sam can practically hear the gears turning in Higgs’s head.

“Did…Sam, did you want to leave because…?”

_Don’t say it. Please, god, don’t let him say it. I can’t talk about this_.

“…because you _liked_ that I kissed you?”

Sam feels like he can’t breathe, hands and feet bound, smothered against this tall, sexy—yeah, that’s right, _sexy_ —man in the trunk of some druglord’s car. His heart pounds against his ribs. Oh, what he would give for sudden death right now.

“Sam? Is that why?”

“Can we stop talking about it already?” Sam’s voice comes out like a whimper, and he curses himself inwardly.

Higgs laughs. “You did! Holy shit, Sam!” He laughs again, and the sigh he breathes next sounds relieved. “Thank christ. I thought I was being too aggressive…I mean, I wondered if you even, you know, were into men or whatever. Just because you reacted pretty strongly when the neighbors suggested we might be a couple.”

“No I didn’t!”

“I didn’t mean like, homophobic or whatever.” Sam can just imagine that smug, shit-eating, wolfish grin on Higgs’s lips. “You were embarrassed. Ashamed of me, maybe.” Well, that’s a half-truth at least. “I thought it was that _stick-up-your-ass_ propriety, but you’re… I can see that now. Well, christ alive, I feel like an infinitesimally better person now because, hey, I may have gotten you dragged to certain death but at least I’m not a fucking rapist or some shit.”

Sam groans. “Knew I shoulda just kept hating you.”

“Sam,” Higgs says sternly. “Believe me when I say this: we’re getting out of this. And I know you’re probably gonna like, freak out, or do that cute little _staring at your hands in silence like a chastised child_ thing – hell, maybe both – but we are gonna live through this, and I swear, when we do, we’re talking about this.”

“Why’s it even matter so much anyway?” Sam mumbles. “Sure you could find another _fling_ or whatever.”

“Another—” Higgs’s voice softens. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I mean,” Sam shrugs, the gesture lost to darkness. “Ain’t that what it is?”

“I guess…it would only make sense that you think that.” Higgs goes quiet again. “I guess that’s what it was gonna be, right?”

“That’s kinda it,” Sam says. “I don’t really do _flings_.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“So…yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

Higgs hesitates, before saying, “And you thought that’s what I wanted? From you, I mean?”

“Ain’t it?”

Higgs’s breathing goes shallow. Since Sam can’t see his face, he can’t discern why, but it makes him nervous. It occurs to him to speak up, ask Higgs what he’s thinking, but he’s suddenly blinded by horrible, bright, white light, and then unceremoniously yanked from the trunk by huge, gruff hands.

It’s Beast, and he tosses Sam to the concrete without ceremony. Hands and feet bound, his shoulder _cracks_ into the hard ground and sends pain searing down his arm and neck. A boot finds his other shoulder and pushes him onto his back, pinning his hands and cutting off circulation. The boot presses in too hard. It hurts. Sam feels welts breaking out across his neck and chest, from the touch, from the pain, from the stress – really, pick one at this point. Spotlights shine aggressively from poles almost as tall as the tin roof overhead, burning his eyes.

“Hey!” Higgs growls from the trunk. Sam can’t see what he’s doing, but he hears the _slam_ of the trunk closing again.

All he can do is groan and grit his teeth. Beast grins down at him, pressing his heel painfully into Sam’s pec.

“Well, ain’t you a doll,” says Beast.

Muffled, Higgs calls, “ _Keep your filthy hands off him!_ ”

“Don’t worry,” Beast calls back. “Just gonna rough him up a tiny bit. I’ll make sure the boss kills him quick and painless and all that jazz.” He winks ominously down at Sam, stirring sickness in his gut. “Just got a little business to take care of first.” A fucked-up voice in Sam’s head wishes he were back in the trunk. At least, with Higgs, he’s safe. It may not have been the most comfortable, but it was much better than being dragged across dirty concrete by his sore ankles and hefted roughly into a cold, hard, metal chair.

His hair sits in wild tufts over his face. He puffs air at it and flicks his head, trying to clear his vision. Each movement hurts a different part of his body, and his lungs feel like he’s run a marathon in that trunk.

“Here’s how this goes,” Beast says. “I’m gonna ask ya a couple questions. I expect you to answer.” That little prod comes out again. Sam’s skin pricks, and bile rises to his throat. “Instructions clear?” Beast asks.

“Get fucked,” Sam growls. He’s immediately rewarded with electricity coursing through him from his bruised shoulder.

There’s banging from inside the car trunk on the far side of the…warehouse? Higgs is shouting, but Sam couldn’t make out the words even if his head _wasn’t_ full of angry hornets stinging his eyeballs.

“Let’s try this again,” Beast says. His voice is slow and low, like molasses. “Do you understand the instructions?”

Sam grits his teeth. “Eat me, bastard.”

Another shock. Sam can’t bite back the pained cry this time, doubling over on himself. He can see stress wheals rising up on the tops of his feet. He wonders if his whole body has broken out.

“I said, do you understand?”

Sam figures he’s snapped back enough. He’s not exactly excited to be buzzed again, so he spits, “I understand.”

“Thaaaat’s what I like to hear.” Thick fingers grab Sam’s chin, yanking his head up and forcing him to lean back in the seat. “Keep your eyes up here, pretty boy.”

Sam grits his teeth against any more biting remarks, noting the little zapper still in Beast’s hand. The grip on his chin hurts, but he daren’t turn his head away, worried about what else this volatile maniac might do to him.

“Now, that was just a warm up. First question; what is your relation to Higgs Monaghan, exactly?”

“None, I just happened to be delivering something to him when you’re crazy goons showed up.”

Another buzz. Sam doubles over, but that mean hand is back on his face again yanking him upright. “That was for the lie. Half a truth counts as a lie, so let’s keep that in mind going forward.”

What lie?! That was the entire fucking truth!

“What were you bringing our little friend, exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

_Bzzzzzzzzt!_

“I said I don’t know!” Sam yells, yelping when Beast straight up grabs him by the jaw, squeezing his cheeks until he feels his teeth breaking the flesh there. Copper fills his mouth. Tears well, but he tries to glare them away defiantly at the man’s ugly face. His next words are distorted by the strong grip around his mouth. “I work for UPS, that’s it.”

“Then why are you here with him now?”

“Because I saw your people attack him! That’s it!”

Apparently, that statement warranted a backhand. Sam hears the smack before he feels it, and it’s powerful enough to knock him sideways, taking the chair down with him. They both clatter to the floor, the chair with much more volume and Sam presumably with significantly more pain. He lands on the same shoulder as before. He must have head trauma; blackness creeps in on the edges of his vision, and his stomach turns, threatening to expel its sparse contents.

Beast hefts a disappointed sigh. “You folks, always making this difficult. I don’t enjoy this job, you know? Don’t be a hero. I don’t wanna torture you, alright?”

Sam half-pants half-groans, “Coulda…fooled me…”

Another zap lands Sam’s leg, his calf as best he can tell – not that it really matters, because the pain reaches every nerve ending in his entire body. Relentlessly. Beast’s hands gather the fabric of his sweater, surely stretching it and basically destroying the integrity of the knit, and he yanks Sam to his feet. Sam wobbles, unable to balance on his own with his ankles tied together. It’s getting hard to focus his eyes.

His rank breath violate’s Sam’s senses as Beast says, quietly, “Think I’m some kinda sadist? What, you a little freak who likes to be tossed around?”

There’s a sudden crack, followed by a stunned expression on Beast’s face. For a pause, Sam expects the man to toss him back to the ground, leave him to wriggle like a worm on the cold concrete. Instead, Beast’s grip slackens. His scowl fades to indifference as Sam tumbles freely onto his back, bracing himself so he doesn’t hit his head again. It winds up hurting his wrists more, but that should heal.

There’s a hard _thwomp_ as the massive goon goes down beside him.

“I told you to keep your filthy hands off him.”

There stands Higgs, bare chest heaving with exertion. He’s wielding a huge tire iron. His face is red, teeth grit in a nasty glare. Sweat glistens on his brow and chest. Dark veins show along slender muscle on his hands and arms. Sam’s never seen this Higgs, this manic, angry, seething, panting, tire-iron-wielding Higgs. It’s downright terrifying. He has half a mind to let himself pass out right now so he doesn’t have to witness whatever comes next.

Which, quite frankly, did not go how Sam expected Higgs to progress from current events. Instead of going on a mad rampage, or beating the thug’s head in (a thing Sam wouldn’t exactly have hated to witness), the tire iron clatters loudly as Higgs drops to his knees, reaching down and scooping Sam off the floor.

Sam groans in pain as Higgs moves him, and…is he fading, or does Higgs have tears in his eyes?

“Jesus _Christ_ , Sam.” He’s definitely crying. “I wasn’t fast enough, I couldn’t stop it—I’m—I’m so sorry.” Higgs is working Sam’s ties with trembling hands and a piece of broken glass. As he reaches to Sam’s feet to cut the tie there, Sam sees blood. Not a significant amount, but an alarming amount. It’s almost a perfect ring around each of Higgs’s pale wrists, and there are gashes all over his wrists and arms. Sam guessed he found glass in the trunk and frantically sliced himself up trying to get out. Trying to help him. To protect him.

The bright red contrast’s Higgs’s smooth skin, and Sam feels his chest go tight. It’s too familiar, too much. Higgs is talking, asking him questions, he thinks. Sam tries to focus on the words, but all he can see are those bright red gashes. Through hazy thoughts, he swears he hears water running, swears he can see it trickling onto the gray floor, blood mixed with bathwater, soaking in to the ground…

Higgs ducks into his vision, encouraging him to lift his head toward the light.

Sam’s senses horn in just long enough to hear Higgs. It sounds like he’s underwater, “ _The light, Sam. Look up for me. There you go. Okay, you’re gonna be okay. Get up. We gotta go get help. Come on, Sam!_ ”

Sam may as well have been injected with lethal poison. His head spins, trauma reeling with whatever’s happening to him at the sight of Higgs’s blood on his arms.

“The…” Sam fumbles, raising his hands toward his head in confused panic. “The baby…” he mumbles. Looking around, he spots the red marks on his own wrists. He’s not cut up like Higgs, but dark, angry, bloodied marks mar perfect circles and mirror Higgs’s. He can’t breathe. His head is spinning, and he knows he is supposed to be doing _something_ , but he can’t breathe.

“ _Okay there buddy, I know this isn’t your favorite but I’m gonna pick you up. We gotta get out of here before they find us._ ”

Sam barely registers Higgs’s bloody arm wrapping around his middle. He swallows vomit, and he shoves the offending appendage away. He doesn’t know why he did it. He knows he needs his help.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” he thinks Higgs goes on. “ _I have to touch you to get you off the floor. Come on. Easy does it, there you are. Okay, just hold on to me._ ”

Sam’s neck feels weak – hell, everything feels weak. And he’s certain that warehouse is magically shrinking. Or are they approaching a wall? Everything is so blurry. Voices garble in his ears.

“ _Help!_ ” Higgs cries out. How far have they been walking? His arms are slung around Higgs’s neck. He’s warm. He’s safe. But…it’s wrong, he shouldn’t be seeking comfort in this man, much less finding it. Right? But it’s warm. He’s safe.

“ _Oh my god, Sam!_ ” That voice didn’t come from Higgs. Sam can’t even pinpoint its owner, just hears Higgs and the other party talking frantically to one another, until he can’t fight the swimming in his head anymore.

“It’s safe,” he mumbles blearily. “She said it’s safe.”

Sam goes underwater. In his dreams, he sees marred, pale arms and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My little sibling described this chapter as, "intense." I hope you find it at least moderately so, but more than anything that you enjoy Higgs and Sam struggling to talk about their ~feelings like ~men. Plus, you know, a little whump/H/C for added oomph. The fic is almost overrrr D: but I promise to make the last chapters reaaaaally worth the wait. Hehehe.
> 
> Have a great weekend, all!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Higgs is an idiot. Though, he's a different kind of idiot than Sam initially thought. Maybe not the worst kind, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few severe trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Mentions of drug abuse, discussions of suicide, death, miscarriage, and self-harm.
> 
> There's a fluffy ending though. Not all is bad.

… “ _It wasn’t me!”_

“…Lucy?”

… “ _I know. I believe you. Calm down._ ”

“…why would you…why…”

… “ _…has a concussion. He should be fine, we just need to get him to the—”_

_“—no hospitals! Um, uh…”_

_“Talk to me, Higgs. What the hell is going on?”_

_“…a lot to explain.”_

“…don’t go…”

… “ _Lost any blood?”_

_“I’m fine. They’re minor…that’s all mine, I think.”_

_“…just to be sure…Taylor! Hurry!”_

_“Jesus, what the fuck happened?!”_

“…my fault…I’m sorry…”

… _“Don’t say that. You don’t know what you’re saying. Just breathe, Sam.”_

_“You’re gonna be alright.”_

_…tha-thump…_

_…tha-thump…_

_…tha-thump…_

Before Sam’s eyes open, before he can feel his extremities or hear quiet murmurings, pain. Everywhere. Blood rushes, too loud in his ears, to fast in his head, too hard through his neck and back. Somehow, he’s alive.

Even dim firelight is too much, stinging his retina when he cracks open one eye. He groans; his voice is hoarse, gravelly. He’s warm. Almost too warm. Almost smothered. He tries opening his eyes again; it hurts, but he can see. Some of the swimming has calmed, and the room only sways a little as he takes it in. Dark wallpaper, black sconces…

…the neighbor’s house. Soft voices coming from somewhere. Women’s voices. It must be Samantha and Taylor. He shifts; something shifts with him. Arms. Around his torso. He cranes his neck to look down, which sends a fresh jolt of pain everywhere. A pair of pale, thin hands rest against his stretched, blood-stained sweater. Bandages peek out from beneath a cotton cardigan. Breathing. More than his own breathing. He rests against Higgs…on the sofa. Long pajama pants ending in bloody, dirty feet lie on either side of his legs. Sam tries to sit up, and Higgs’s arms slide limply from his chest. Sam’s body feels weak everywhere, and it’s a fight getting it to respond to his commands. Slowly, as not to further invoke the wrath of his frayed nerve endings, Sam turns; Higgs is asleep, head lolled against the couch, mouth agape as he breathes deeply. His thin features too are littered with bruises and cuts. A burning smell hits him…it’s not coming from the wood in the fireplace, either. Eyes still bleary, he rubs them and sits up further. Samantha and Taylor are huddled by the front door in front of a cracked window. Samantha’s in an old wooden rocker, blowing cigarette smoke through the crack into cold night air. Taylor sits cross-legged on the floor, hand resting on a wooden stock, a rifle upright in her hand, butt resting against her thigh.

Still groggy, Sam says, “What happened?”

Two necks snap, and two tired faces peer in his direction. “Sam!” Taylor says. She leans the rifle against the wall and stands. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

Higgs stirs at Sam’s voice, and when he sees Sam sitting up his arms move faster than lightning, wrapping around Sam. Higgs buries his face in Sam’s chest, fingers curling into the back of his sweater so tightly it hurts. His shoulders shake in quiet sobs.

Samantha and Taylor release strained chuckles, and Samantha takes a shaky drag of her cigarette.

“Higgs told us everything,” Taylor says. “Samantha was on a grocery run and saw him stumbling out of the woods. You looked dead! I—we had no idea. I’m sorry for…insinuating…man, I’m glad to see you awake.” She raises a hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Samantha bats her wife’s hand down and whispers something. Taylor looks sheepish and says, “Uh, I’ll get you some water.”

Strong hands grip Sam’s arms, and Higgs pulls him away. His eyes are bright red and glassy, tears streaking pale, stubbly cheeks. The flesh around them is puffy and dark, a combination of sleep deprivation and unhindered tears that Sam’s seen in the mirror far too many times. The sight of Higgs, looking so wrecked and sorrowful, is enough to spring fresh tears in his own eyes.

“’M okay,” Sam says, softly.

With a teary laugh, Higgs says, “Bull _shit_. But you’re alive.”

Sam gently removes one of Higgs’s hands and pulls the sweater sleeve back; a stained gauze wraps around his wrist and down his entire arm.

“It’s nothing,” Higgs says with a sniffle. “I’m fine. Didn’t even need stitches.”

Samantha and Taylor’s voices carry from the kitchen, but they sound far enough away. Eyes fixed on the dressing, Sam takes a deep breath. It’s shaky on the exhale. “I was married,” he says, softly. He traces the line of the bandage, fingers lingering on red splotches.

Higgs goes quiet. “I didn’t know. Lucy..?”

Sam’s heart bangs against his ribcage. He can’t bring himself to look at Higgs’s face, afraid he’ll chicken out and stop talking if he sees that _look_. The pitying, condescending expression everyone wears when he tells them, what he knows he has to tell Higgs.

“She died,” Sam goes on. “She, um…” His breath catches and he sucks it down, tries to suck down the tears with it. Higgs’s hand appears over his, pressing it against the warmth of the bandage. With another shaky exhale, Sam says, “She was carrying our child.”

“Sam…”

“I mean—” Sam pulls away and swipes in annoyance at the tears streaking his face. “She wasn’t. Not anymore. But I…I didn’t know. And when I found her, I thought…” A sob rises through his words, and he can’t talk anymore. He presses his lips together stubbornly, determined not to melt down. He can’t remember the last time he told anyone, didn’t realize that talking about it would make it feel so real again, so fresh.

“Jesus,” Higgs whispers. He pulls the sleeve down low over his bloody bandage. Some of the tension eases from Sam’s windpipe.

Sam clears his throat and swipes at his face again.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Higgs assures. Sam nods, eyes on his damp fingers fidgeting in his lap.

“I’m so sorry,” Higgs says. It’s a different apology than before, this one not steeped in guilt or remorse, just genuine sympathy. Sam’s physical pain becomes more acute, pounding and shooting everywhere, and he feels lightheaded as Taylor returns with a glass of water. Sam accepts it with a dizzy nod and sips. The cold liquid burns his throat, which at least distracts him from feeling like his stomach is going to come out of his mouth.

The ladies resume their posts by the door with swift silence. Sam hears the _click_ of a lighter as Samantha ignites another cigarette.

Higgs leans again onto the arm of the couch and says, “Hey.”

Sam ventures a look up; Higgs’s arms are open. An invitation. Not an expectation, not pressure, not an act. A peace offering. A promise of comfort and safety.

With some hesitation, Sam leans into the embrace. Higgs pulls him against his chest, resting his chin on Sam’s mop of hair. It hurts when he wraps his arms around him, but it’s no worse than the pain _everywhere else_ and it’s a favorable trade-off. Sam’s ear and cheek rest against Higgs’s bare chest where the cardigan is open, and he can hear his heart pounding frantically. He closes his eyes and latches on to the sound, to the warmth from Higgs’s skin. He latches on to the feeling of life, the steady rise and fall of Higgs chest as he breathes deliberately, slowly.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Higgs whispers. “I’ve seen that look. I’ve seen it on colleagues, and I’ve seen it on myself. And if anyone’s said this to you already, they damn sure didn’t say it enough: it’s not your fault.”

Sam clenches his eyes shut, hiccups as more tears start to fall, making his cheek slick where it rests against Higgs.

“I mean it. Whatever happened before, whatever was gonna happen after, whatever you did wrong…that’s not why, okay?”

Higgs has never sounded so gentle, so sincere. A hand finds its way into Sam’s hair, and Sam lets go, letting himself cry. It’s ugly and noisy and wet, and Higgs just holds him, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to shush him or comfort him. Doesn’t make him feel guilty for his sobs, for being inconsolable. He just anchors him, holding him in reality as the dam crashes down beneath wave after wave of tears he’s held back far too long.

Sam has no idea how long it is before Higgs offers him a tissue, before he uses a sleeve to dab at the tears on Sam’s face, carefully avoiding his bruises and cuts. Before Higgs’s lips are on his forehead. Doesn’t know when he started begging Higgs not to leave him the way she did.

“Hey. Look at me.” Thin fingers brush the hair away from Sam’s eyes, smooth it at the sides so Sam can see.

Sam can barely hold the eye contact, tears still falling, though he’s run out of breath to truly cry any longer.

Higgs fixes him with the most intense stare he’s ever given him. “I won’t. I swear. This?” He holds up one arm, careful to hold the sleeve taught so it doesn’t fall, doesn’t show the bloodied bandages. “This was an accident. I was so worried about you, I didn’t even feel it happen.”

Sam can barely muster a whispered response. “I know…”

He puts a hand on the side of Sam’s neck – arguably the only part of his entire body _not_ covered in bruises – and repeats, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do!” Higgs growls the words, then pauses as his expression softens again. “I know it, Sam. I’m not bullshitting you. I’ve seen it, that burden you’ve been carrying since it happened. It’s not yours to carry.”

“Higgs—”

Whatever Sam thinks he’s gonna say is cut off when Samantha calls, “Company.”

All parties go silent. Higgs slides to the floor, practically yanking Sam with him.

“Ow,” Sam hisses. “Fuck!”

“Sorry. Shh.” Higgs lifts a finger to his lips.

The sound of Taylor’s gun cocking resonates as Samantha says, “What can we do for you, sir?” She’s must be speaking through the window, because the door never opened.

There’s a distant murmuring, clearly a man’s voice, but it’s too soft to make out the words.

Samantha continues, “Awfully late for that, don’t you think?”

More murmuring, and Higgs perks up. “Is he alone?”

After a moment, Samantha and Taylor both say, “Yeah.”

Higgs stands. “It’s my SO. Well, former SO. Let him in!”

Taylor takes a step away from the door, finger inside the trigger guard of her rifle, hand beneath the barrel, ready to aim and fire at a moment’s notice. She nods to Samantha, who slowly opens the door.

“Monaghan, you wonderful moron.”

Sam knows that voice.

Higgs’s shoulders slump, and he offers a hand to Sam, pulling him from the floor.

At the door stands Gutierrez. He looks almost as exhausted as Sam feels, short hair sticking up disastrously in every direction, glasses smudged and crooked. He balks when he spots Sam, dark eyes going wide. He raises his eyebrows, crinkling the scar across his forehead. “What the hell did you get yourselves into this time?!”

“I fucked up,” Higgs says. His voice is shaky. Sam can’t stop staring at him, aghast. There’s no snarky bite behind the words, no _you-can’t-get-to-me_ tones, no brazen sarcasm. Just sincere remorse. “I fucked up big time.”

“I should say so.” Gutierrez hefts a great sigh as Samantha closes and bolts the door. He’s holding a large gym bag in one hand, and he’s dressed as a civilian save for the bulk of a holster beneath his jacket. “You’re lucky these ladies are so prepared.” He gestures to Taylor, who is still standing battle-ready. “And lucky those great apes didn’t think to look for you here. Chief Gutierrez,” he says, extending a hand to the woman not wielding a rifle.

“Samantha,” she replies. “Annie Oakley over there is my wife, Taylor. A pleasure, sir.”

“Samantha, Taylor.” He nods to each one in turn. “I cannot thank you enough for taking care of these boys. That skinny idiot over there means a lot to me, personally.”

Still feeling weak, Sam sits back on the couch before he can collapse. Higgs kneels on the floor in front of him. “You okay?”

Sam nods, furrows his brow, then shakes his head. “Nah. Not really.”

Gutierrez grumbles quiet reprimands as he hefts the bag toward the couch. It hits the wooden floor with a _thump_ , and the big man lumbers into a sitting position to unzip it.

“Fresh clothes,” he says, unpacking some linens and laying them on the couch. “From the looks of things, you need them. I’ve got a squad car parked down the street in case anything else happens.”

“Would have been nice to have when we got home-invaded,” Higgs says, but the words fall limp under his demure tone.

“We did,” Gutierrez says. “But when Englert found out where you were…”

“He called them away.” Higgs slams a fist into the floor with enough force to startle Sam. “Son of a bitch!”

“It’s not for nothing, though,” Gutierrez goes on. “You did it, Higgs. I was able to trace back your route to the warehouse, and the big fella who took a beating spilled everything. We’ve got them.”

Higgs stares at his former supervisor in disbelief. He cracks a huge smile. “You did?” He laughs. “All of them? McClane?”

“Even McClane.” He claps Higgs on the shoulder. Sam doesn’t miss the soft hiss of pain between Higgs’s teeth, but the man still smiles. “We still need your testimony to pin him as the big guy, but we found everything.”

“Even the—”

“The girls.” Gutierrez nods, solemnly. “Physically, everyone we found was fine. I’m sure it’ll take years to truly recover from what they’ve been through, but they’ll survive. Because of you two. Because of you stumbling your stupid ass into a mole-lain trap.”

Higgs laughs and flings his arms around Gutierrez, squeezing him in a tight hug. “Holy shit. Holy shit!”

Gutierrez laughs in return and pats the man on the back. “Now listen,” he says as Higgs pulls away. “Higgs, whatever you need, if you need help—”

“It was a ruse,” Higgs says. “I never relapsed.”

Gutierrez frowns. “But you…the drugs…”

“I know.” Higgs laughs. “I couldn’t tell anyone. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, but…”

Gutierrez waves a dismissive hand. “No matter. You’re safe. You’re still clean. The operation is done for. Even if we don’t get everyone today, this is a huge win.”

Sam takes the conversation in, feeling glued to the soft couch. He tries to piece it all together, realizing that Higgs never really told him much about exactly what he was doing before he yanked him through that doorway to be chased by criminals. Human traffickers?! He was sure it was just a drug ring that Higgs got himself swept into with bad habits. New guilt washes over him. All the assumptions he made about Higgs’s habits, his character…

“That said.” Gutierrez reaches into the duffel and pulls out a small box wrapped in shiny red paper. “This arrived at your old address a few days ago. I figured you’d want it today, since it’s the official date.”

Higgs’s eyes go wide. He gingerly takes the box and looks up. “Is this…?”

“It’s one year today.”

Tears spring to Higgs’s eyes. “Is it Christmas?”

“Well,” Gutierrez glances at his watch, “technically now it is, since it’s past midnight.”

With shaky fingers, Higgs tears the paper from the box and opens it. He fumbles and almost drops it, trying to remove its contents: a small, plastic chip. He sobs, clutching it to his chest and slumping on the floor. Gutierrez pulls him into another embrace and whispers, “I’m so proud of you.”

Sam takes the quiet moment to sift through the neat stack of clothes beside him, picking a t-shirt that doesn’t look too small. He pulls the filthy sweater off over his head and grimaces at the marks on his body. His shoulder is peppered with tiny burns, and rings of purple, yellow, and green are smattered over his torso and both of his arms. Handprint-shaped welts peek through the discoloration, standing out amongst the wheals over his entire body.

“Jesus.” Higgs sniffles, pulling away from Gutierrez and drying his eyes. “Sorry, been a long fucking day.” His eyes land on Sam, who quickly pulls on the clean shirt. No need to make him feel any worse about his condition than he already does. “You allergic to something?!”

Sam shakes his head.

“Symptom of your illness?” Gutierrez asks.

Sam nods.

“Fuck, I didn’t realize…I thought it was a mind thing,” Higgs says, eyes wandering over the marks on Sam’s arm.

“Physical reactions to a mental illness are uncommon,” Gutierrez says, “but not unheard of.” He points a finger toward Sam. “This is one of the toughest men I think I’ve ever met. I mean, he put up with you in close quarters for a month.”

Higgs laughs and nods emphatically, gently patting Sam’s knee. “He really is one tough motherfucker.”

“If you need,” Taylor chimes in, “you can crash here. All three of you. Long as you need. We’ve got a guest bedroom, and that sofa pulls out.”

“You two are too perfect,” Higgs says.

“I can take the couch,” Sam says.

“No,” Gutierrez says. “In your condition? I’d be happier with you in a hospital bed.”

“I don’t need—”

“I know, I know. Still, you need a proper rest in a proper bed, and I’ll get a trusted medic in here to check you out. Tomorrow.”

“His pupils and breathing are good,” Taylor offers. “Doesn’t seem like anything’s broken, but an x-ray probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“Just take it easy tonight,” Gutierrez says. “We’ll sort things out in the morning. And Higgs, you can have the sofa.”

Sam and Higgs exchange a small glance, which makes Sam’s cheeks burn.

“I’ll probably head back outside, keep an eye on things myself. No more fuckups. And Higgs!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Stay off your damn phone for a while.”

Higgs smiles, eyes cast down. “Yes, sir.”

The bed linens are fresh. The bedroom is cozy and dark. Higgs may well be radiating a supernatural analgesic, as lying under the covers next to him slowly dulls all of Sam’s aches. Well, maybe that’s the pill Taylor gave him. Higgs is another kind of medicine – a beacon, an anchor. A safe place. Sam can hardly believe it. When Higgs pulled him through that door, yanked him to the floor and told him to run, he would never have wagered that this was how they’d end up: lying comfortable, side-by-side, with all of Sam’s walls utterly demolished and old wound ripped open inside and on full display.

“Are you awake?” Higgs whispers.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Me either.”

Higgs turns on his side, bunching the pillow to support his neck. Sam can’t bring himself to move that much – everything still hurts, and he’s moderately comfortable for the moment. He just turns his head slightly. He can only see the silhouette of Higgs’s face in the darkness, outlined by dim moonlight shining through the cracks around the curtain.

“I wish I’d told you more,” Higgs says. “Sooner.”

Sam’s too tired to feel very emotional, though he knows those words would have elicited a response otherwise. He says, “You gonna be okay?”

Higgs snorts. “Are you?”

Sam smiles. “Think so. Someday.”

“Me too.”

Sam’s gaze traces the outline of Higgs’s features in the darkness. The hazy glow through his short hair. The shine on his sharp cheekbones, his long, slender neck. His lithe, strong shoulder just above where the comforter rests. He feels loose and easy. _Taylor’s got the good shit._ “C’I tell you something?”

“Long as it’s not too personal; we’re not really that close.”

Sam scoffs, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. Softly, before he can think better of it, Sam says, “I did like it.” He can just imagine that dopey, self-satisfied grin on Higgs’s face.

With devious feigned innocence in his voice, Higgs says, “Like what?”

Sam blushes. “You know.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Bridges.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Dunno what else to be.”

Sam turns his head again, and he can see well enough to see that Higgs is, in fact, wearing a huge smirk. “Kissing you. I did like it.”

Higgs reaches toward him, then pauses. “…is it okay to touch you?”

Sam’s breath catches. He’s not sure anyone has ever asked him that before. Certainly not the way Higgs just did, with subtle undertones of pleading _want_ and an unspoken promise to back away if he says no.

“Yeah.”

The hovering hand closes the distance. Higgs brushes the hair from Sam’s forehead, running his fingers through the strands. In the same motion his hand moves down, tracing the line of Sam’s jaw with his thumb. Sam’s eyes flutter closed. The touch leaves sparks in its wake. He wants to live in this moment forever.

“I never wanna see you like this again,” Higgs whispers.

Sam opens his eyes. “In bed?”

“In bed?” Higgs’s thumb moves up to touch Sam’s lower lip, which makes him tingle all over. “In bed, I want to see you again. A lot. Like, several times a day, maybe.”

Sam can’t help but smile as his face heats up.

“I mean this. All these bruises, all these welts…I wasn’t careful. I didn’t even think about the consequences of…well, anyway, I’ll do better. Swear.”

Sam nods mutely. His head is swimming for reasons entirely unrelated to his injuries now, numb everywhere except where Higgs touches his face.

“I’ll _be_ better,” Higgs says.

For an indefinable stretch of time, they lay in silence, Higgs tracing tender circles on Sam’s skin like he can suck out the pain and the grief. Were he any less exhausted, Sam’s heart would be tapdancing. As it is, he just savors the contact, letting go of the icky feelings telling him not to enjoy the new connection he’s found.

So softly he almost doesn’t hear him, Higgs says, “Could I kiss you again?”

More heat blooms in Sam’s chest, rising to his ears. “Yeah.”

Higgs’s fingers run through Sam’s hair to the back of his head, and he leans forward. When their lips meet, it’s gentle, chaste. Sam’s eyelids fall, heavy at the contact, and he leans into the kiss, inhaling the distant aroma of lavender and sweat and whatever smells stuck to them from the car trunk. Beneath the blanket, Sam reaches out, finds Higgs’s warm skin and pulls at his waist. Scratch anything he thought earlier; _this_ is the moment he wants to live in for the rest of his life.

When they break, Higgs lingers, face hovering inches from Sam’s. He plants a kiss on Sam’s forehead, then says, “We should try to sleep.”

Sam can hardly find breath to speak. “Good idea.”

“Hey.” Higgs smirks, scooting closer. “Wanna spoon?”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I wanna wrap this up with a neat little bow - and in the next chapter, the long-awaited SMUT. I don't know why I felt like it had to be really earned (because Higgs is an asshole and Sam is a soft boi? probably) but I hope the journey has been pleasant. Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading and commenting. It means a lot.
> 
> Happy New Year! (I think I said that already? Oh well, happy inauguration day here in the US of A)
> 
> Also, following the last chapter I'll add some additional clarification in the notes, for anyone who still has questions about Sam and Higgs's backstories. I didn't wanna weigh down the pace with too much exposition, especially since there are a lot of parallels to the game's backstory that most of you have probably spotted by now. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this first chapter of a fanfic I'm very excited for! It won't be terribly long, but I do love a little psychological torture in my fanfics. There will be smut, there will be awkward first kisses...you know, all the good stuff. Enjoy!


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